UC-NRLF 


B    2    fi37    SIS 


A£ri.  -  Forestry  •  Main  Library 


In  Forest  Land 


BY 

DOUGLAS    MALLOCH 


Third  Edition 


ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS  BY 
SIDNEY  VERNON  8TRIATOR 


» •»     •     »  »     • 


1910 

AMERICAN   LUMBERMAN 
CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 

THE  AMERICAN  LUMBERMAN 

CHICAGO 


I 


INDEX 


Accessory,  The 46 

Autumn    ...          29 

Back  to  the  Land .     .     „     .  139 

Bar bary  Coast,  The Ill 

Basket  Weaver,  The 17 

Big  Tree,  The 153 

BUI 132 

Birth  of  Hope,  The        .     . 24 

Birthplace,  The         179 

Blind,  The .      .  188 

Brotherhood  of  the  Forest,  The 43 

Bud  Green's  Hero . 163 

Burning,  The       . 165 

Callin'  of  the  Pine,  The       .........  77 

Channel,  The       ...                             .....  148 

Confusion  of  Tongues,  The       ....           ...  79 

Connecticut  Drive,  The .  105 

Constancy >     .      .  19 

Departure,  The         .      .     .           .      .     .     .       *  • .      .  144 

Deserted  Camp,  The      .      .           *    .  '   .  68 

Detroit .  182 

Disagreeableness  of  Infallibility,  The        .  .        ...  192 

Disappointment        .           ...  22 

Diversity  of  Nature,  The     .           ...                ...  21 

Drive,  The 104 

Druids  of  the  Olden  Time,  The      ....  .40 

Edelweiss .     .  .37 

Encouragement ...  187 

Fair  One,  The     .      .                       55 

Fall  of  the  Champion,  The 120 

Family  Trees ....  30 

Filipinos,  The 170 

a 


299051 


4  '-INDEX 

Forest  Fire,'  The  -  •-..:  ->\  .*.«'       .      .      .....  11' 

Forest,  Give  Me  of  Thy  Green 49 

Forest  Morn,  The 

Forest  on  the  Shore,  The    .      .                       ....  50 

Gallant  Oak,  The      .      .      * 53 

Garb  of  Glory,  The  ......           ....  54 

Give  a  Boy  a  Dawg •           •  157 

Give  Me  an  Ax 117 

Gliders,  The 113 

Good  Night,  Mother 184 

Here  Will  Be  the  End  of  My  Voyage        .....  39 

Immortality         ...  57 
In  an  Open  Place 

Inland  Tar,  The        ... .135 

It's  a  Mighty  Good  World  to  Me  . 190 

Jean  Comes  to  Mass       ....  97 
Jefferson         .      . 

Land  of  Christmas  Trees,  The      , .  155 

Last  Night  the  Silent  Plaza  Through        .      .      .            .  173 

Lew  Wallace       .     . 

Louisiana  Monument,  The        .                       ....  169 

Louisiana  Purchase,  The 168 

Love  of  a  Botanist,  The                                   ....  41 

Lover  and  the  Hunter,  The 

Lumber  Camp  Cat,  The      .  47 

Lumberjack,  The .59 

McDonald,  the  Cook      ..........  75 

Magic  of  the  Moon,  The 42 

Man  Behind  the  Scrap,  The      ........  93 

Mary's  Mission  Furniture 72 

Meeting  of  the  Waters,  The .-.  -  .  106 

Melody  of  Leaves  Astir,  The .  7 

Men  of  Bangor,  The 142 

Mill  in  the  Forest,  The        

Napoleon -»     •  1^2 


INDEX  5 

Narrative,  A                                    ,     .  149 

Night .177 

Oak  of  MacGregor,  The 38 

Old  Accordion,  The             66 

Old  Ohio  Levee,  The .102 

Old  Pole  Bridge,  The  J 20 

One 33 

On  the  Bluffs  of  the  Little  Big  Horn        175 

Oshkosh 125 

Palm,  The 15 

Platte,  The     .....                             ....  110 

Poet  and  Peasant     ....      .;   .      .....  95 

Poet  and  Plutocrat         34 

Porte  des  Mortes .      .  147 

Pyramid  Park 181 

Rebellious  River,  The    .  108 

Revenge  of  the  Good  Scow  Mary,  The 145 

Ridin'  on  the  Carriage   ...            161 

Rugged  Sons  of  Maine,  The 10 

Runnin'  Lawgs          •  158 

Saginaw,  The 129 

San  Francisco *     .  166 

Shadow  and  Sun .52 

Silent  City,  The              •    .     .  126 

Sleep   ......... 

Song  for  the  Satiated,  A           36 

Songs  the  Woodsmen  Sing,  The 83 

Son  of  Sicily,  A 88 

Sportsman,  The        .            51 

Spring 44 

Stable  Boy,  The 90 

Sunday  Afternoon     .            ...            63 

Sympathy 185 

Thanksgiving 178 

Thanksgiving  Turk,  The 115 


6  INDEX 

Tommie's  House 160 

Turkey  Taste,  The        130 

Unconscious  Philosopher,  The 70 

Up  in  the  Woods ;'     .     .     .     .  65 

Upward  Trail,  The         ...           27 

Vision  in  the  Wood,  The 18 

Way  Home,  The 85 

Welcome  to  the  New  Year 26 

When  Patti  Sang  at  36 60 

When  the  Drive  Comes  Down .  101 

Who  Understands 58 

Will  of  the  Mighty,  The 99 

Woman  Cook,  The               .     .     ..,;• 137 

Your  Son  and  Mine 14 


THE     FOREST 


THE  MELODY  OF  LEAVES  ASTIR. 

Let   other   bards   their   harps   attune 

To  sing  of  gold  and  courts  and  kings ; 
But  leave  to  me  the  hush  of  June, 

The  music  that  the  forest  sings. 
Let  other  bards  from  fields  of  blood 

Send  up  their  hymns  to  mighty  Mars ; 
But  leave  to  me  the  quiet  wood, 

The  tender  moonlight  and  the  stars. 

I'll  hang  my  harp  upon  a  tree, 

Where  ev'ry  passing  breeze  may  play, 
And  catch  the  leafy  minstrelsy, 

The  music  of  the  shaded  way. 
Yea,  I  will  teach  this  harp  of  mine 

To  sing  the  song  the  forest  sings, 
To  mingle  with  the  sob  of  pine 

The  silver  aspen's  whisperings. 

For  I  would  find  that  sweetest  chord 

That  makes  the  forest  harmony, 
Would  wake  at  will  the  music  poured 

To  ev'ry  zephyr  by  the  tree. 
To  know  thee  more  my  spirit  longs, 

O  melody  of  leaves  astir ; 
O  forest,  let  me  sing  thy  songs, 

O,  make  me  thy  interpreter. 


IN  FOREST  LAND 


IN  AN  OPEN  PLACE. 

I  step  from  out  the  forest  vast 

My  feet  have  wandered  through; 
I  leave  the  forest  of  the  Past 

To  greet  a  forest  new. 
A  year  ago  like  this  I  stood 

Before  untrodden  ways 
And  plunged,  as  now,  within  a  wood — 

A  wilderness  of  days. 

A  year  ago  a  year  new  born 

Stretched  out  before  my  feet; 
Then  not  a  rose  concealed  a  thorn 

And  ev'ry  fruit  was  sweet. 
But,  as  I  walked,  the  sky  grew  gray 

And  tangled  grew  the  road ; 
Then  lonely  was  the  forest  way 

And  heavy  was  the  load. 

As  thus  the  year,  once  new,  grew  less, 

Perplexing  grew  the  wood; 
I  knew  not  if  to  onward  press 

Or  linger  where  I  stood. 
New  hurts  and  wrongs  my  path  made  drear, 

Old  wounds  were  opened  wide; 
And  none  there  was  my  heart  to  cheer 

And  none  to  walk  beside. 

Now  comes  the  New  Year,  as  it  came 

Before  with  hope  aglow; 
The  way  that  beckons  is  the  same 

That  called  a  year  ago. 


THE  FOREST 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that,  spite  of  pain 

And  slur  and  cold  offense, 
I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that,  spite  of  rain 

And  past  experience, 

The  New  Year  ever  looks  as  fair 

As  if  all  life  were  new ; 
The  world  behind  is  bleak  and  bare — 

The  sky  before  is  blue. 
I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  the  New  Year  brings 

A  balm  for  hurt  and  pain; 
With  feet  that  run  and  heart  that  sings 

I  journey  on  again. 


10  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  RUGGED  SONS  OF  MAINE. 

Beneath  the  spruce  tree  and  the  pine 

Were  little  children  reared 
And  something  of  that  regal  line 

In  their  own  blood  appeared. 
For  they  were  mighty,  like  the  tree 

In  form  and  heart  and  brain 
And  grew  in  stately  dignity — 

The  rugged  sons  of  Maine. 

Their  cradle  was  the  bough  that  swings, 

Their  lullaby  the  breeze 
That  strikes  the  forest's  waiting  strings 

And  wakes  its  harmonies. 
They  laved  their  feet  in  purling  brooks 

That  tumble  to  the  plain, 
And  learned  from  Nature  more  than  books — 

The  rugged  sons  of  Maine. 

No  terrors  in  the  forest  dwelt 

Or  through  the  forest  crept — 
It  was  the  altar  where  they  knelt, 

The  chamber  where  they  slept. 
They  walked  its  solemn  aisles  secure 

From  want  or  care  or  pain, 
In  health  and  vigor  rich,  though  poor — 

The  rugged  sons  of  Maine. 

The  rugged  sons  of  Maine  have  stamped 

Their  impress  on  the  world, 
Beneath  the  battleflag  have  tramped 

Where  death's  tornado  whirled. 


THE  FOREST  11 


The  peacetime's  greater  victories 
Have  felt  the  hand  and  brain 

Of  children  of  the  forest  trees— 
The  rugged  sons  of  Maine. 

And  some  there  were  who  left  the  wild 

To  other  hills  to  roam, 
But  never  does  the  forest  child 

Forget  the  forest  home. 
Remembering  its  tender  love 

In  sunshine  and  in  rain, 
They  proudly  wear  the  title  of 

The  rugged  sons  of  Maine. 


12  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  FOREST  FIRE. 

At  first  a  spark  that  slumbered  in  the  leaves ; 
And  then  a  tiny  blaze  that  glowed  afar — 
A  distant  blaze  that  seemed  a  fallen  star, 

A  single  grain  from  heaven's  silver  sheaves. 

The  morn  a  smoke-plume  on  the  hill  revealed, 
That  marked  the  first  insidious  advance. 
The  night  came  down,  and  found  the  fiery  lance 

Sunk  deeper  in  the  mountain's  verdant  shield. 

Then  came  long  days  that  melted  into  night 
And  left  the  sky  in  lurid  color  dressed ; 
The  sun  set  slowly  in  the  vapored  west, 

A  copper  oval  of  distorted  light. 

The  primal  blaze  threw  its  increasing  line 
Across  the  mountain's  wooded  side  until 
Re-echoed  mournfully  from  hill  to  hill 

The  thunder  of  the  stricken  giant  pine. 

Oft  skyward  blazed  a  solitary  tree, 

A  vivid  instant  dimmed  all  other  fire — 
Like  souls  of  mighty  men,  when  they  expire 

Prove  greatest,  even  in  adversity. 

And,  when  the  fury  of  the  fiend  was  spent, 
Burned  out  the  fullness  of  its  torrid  wrath, 
It  left  behind  a  devastated  path — 

To  human  carelessness  a  monument. 

O  ye  who  love  the  richly  verdured  hill, 
Who  wander  through  the  tangled  woodland  ways ; 


THE  FOREST  13 

O  yc  who  know  the  worth  of  summer  days 
And  love  the  music  of  the  mountain  rill ; 

Ye  who  convert  the  tree  to  purpose  new, 

To  final,  destined  and  most  proper  use, 

Play  ye  no  part,  I  pray,  in  this  abuse, 
Have  not  the  burden  of  the  blame  on  you. 

First  learn,  yourselves,  the  best  considered  plan, 
Then  teach  the  careless  what  their  duties  are, 
And  never  more  the  running  flame  shall  scar 

These  timbered  hills,  God's  generous  gift  to  man. 


14  IN  FOREST  LAND 


TOUR  SON  AND  MINE. 

They  fell,  together,  at  the  rifle  pit — 

My  boy  in  garb  of  blue,  your  son  in  gray ; 
And  heaven  wept  its  tears  at  close  of  day 
At  sight  of  it. 

They  sleep  together  in  a  common  grave, 

Lulled  by  the  murmur  of  the  Georgia  pine. 
Brave  was  that  son  of  yours  in  gray ;  and  mine — 
Was  he  less  brave? 

If  they  who  fought  the  fight  of  life  for  life 

And  grappled  at  the  frail  embankment's  crest 
Have  found  together  in  your  South  sweet  rest 
Where  once  was  strife ; 

If  they,  who  lived  as  foes,  as  brothers  died, 

Then  we  the  gentle  balm  of  peace  may  know — 
Our  friendship  by  our  common  loss  and  woe 
Resanctified. 

They  sleep  together  'neath  your  Georgia  pine, 

The  neither  one  more  true  nor  yet  more  brave. 
Come,  clasp  our  hands  across  this  common  grave 
Your  son  and  mine, 


THE  FOREST  15 

THE  PALM. 

The  righteous  shall  flourish  like  a  palm  tree. — Psalm  XCI:l*. 

From  the  sands  of  the  desert  unnumbered, 

Afar  from  the  lily-crowned  Nile, 
Where  the  world  through  the  ages  has  slumbered 

The  sleep  without  vision  or  smile, 
It  rises  in  evergreen  splendor, 

Majestic  and  mighty  and  calm — 
And  the  heart  of  the  pilgrim  grows  tender 

And  sweet  with  the  peace  of  the  palm. 

The  earth  is  a  desert  of  yellow, 

The  sky  is  a  desert  of  brass, 
But  the  fruit  of  the  palm  tree  is  mellow 

And  its  throne  is  a  carpet  of  grass. 
On  the  silence  of  earth,  gray  and  solemn, 

It  breaks  like  the  tones  of  a  psalm : 
It  lifts  to  the  heavens  a  column, 

The  evergreen  shaft  of  the  palm. 

And  thus,  in  the  desert  of  living 

Where  the  feet  of  the  pilgrims  have  trod, 
His  heart  of  its  mellow  fruit  giving, 

Arises  the  servant  of  God — 
A  comfort  to  those  who  would  falter ; 

To  those  who  are  weary,  a  balm ; 
By  the  desolate  roadside,  an  altar; 

In  the  desert  of  living,  a  palm. 

0  be  ye  the  palm  tree,  my  brother, 
An  oasis  thus  on  the  way; 


16  /AT  FOREST  LAND 

O  give  of  your  faith  to  another, 
A  beacon  to  him  who  would  stray. 

And  the  sands  shall  be  cool  that  are  burning, 
And  the  heart  that  is  torn  shall  be  calm, 

And  the  feet  that  would  fail  shall  be  turning 
To  rest  in  the  peace  of  the  palm. 


THE  FOREST  17 

THE  BASKET  WEAVER. 

No  flashing  loom  is  hers;  no  shuttle  flies 
To  do  the  bidding  of  her  hands  and  eyes. 
No  needle  glides  to  designated  place, 
As  weave  her  sisters  overseas  the  lace. 
Hers  is  a  simpler  workshop  in  the  leaves; 
This  is  a  simpler  pattern  that  she  weaves, 
Her  woof  the  splinter  of  the  forest  tree, 
The  ash  so  white,  the  elm  and  hickory, 
Her  dyes  the  blood  of  marish  weeds  and  bark 
With  tints  as  ruddy  as  her  features  dark — 
These  are  her  simple  implements  of  toil, 
The  ready  products  of  the  woodland  soil. 

Yet  who  shall  say  her  skill  is  aught  the  less 
Than  that  of  her  who  weaves  the  princess'  dress? 
For  generations  women  of  her  race 
Have  woven  baskets  in  this  quiet  place, 
And  she  who  weaves  beneath  the  ancient  trees 
Reveals  the  skill  of  toilsome  centuries. 

Into  the  basket  weaves  she  more  than  wood — 
For  weaves  she  in  the  romance  of  her  blood, 
Yea,  weaves  she  in  the  moonlight  and  the  sun, 
The  westward's  burning  rays  when  day  is  done, 
The  verdant  tints  of  winter's  evergreen, 
The  lily's  whiteness  and  the  willow's  sheen, 
The  regal  purple  of  her  honored  chief, 
The  simple  beauty  of  her  God-belief. 

So,  through  its  time,  the  basket  that  she  makes 
Shall  sing  to  me  of  brooks  and  sylvan  lakes, 
Shall  sing  the  glory  of  the  vanished  Red, 
Shall  sing  a  requiem  for  peoples  dead, 
Shall  sing  of  tree,  of  flower  and  of  sod — 
Shall  sing  of  Nature  and  the  place  of  God. 


18  IN  FOREST  LAND 

THE  VISION  IN  THE  WOOD. 

I  heard  a  voice  that  sang  within  the  wood, 
A  voice  so  sweet  and  so  divinely  clear 
That,  while  it  sang  its  song,  I  seemed  to  hear 

The  answering  song  of  angels  where  I  stood. 

The  song  I  know  not — some  unwritten  rune 
Of  summer  nights,  of  warm,  enchanted  hours, 
The  notes  of  birds,  the  whisperings  of  flowers, 

Commingled  in  a  melody  of  June. 

I  saw  a  figure  flitting  through  the  wood — 
A  woman's  tempting  form  idealized, 
A  woman's  form  that  shrank  from  me,  surprised, 

A  form  as  graceful  as  the  face  was  good. 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  smiling  eyes  and  mouth 
And  to  the  phantom  all  my  soul  went  forth; 
My  heart,  till  now  a  frozen,  barren  north, 

Became  a  quickened  and  a  torrid  south. 

I  came  upon  the  vision  in  the  wood 

And  (such  are  men  and  such  are  women  fair) 
Rejoiced  to  find  no  angel  waited  there 

But  just  a  woman,  half -reluctant,  stood. 

The  voice  seraphic  was  a  human  voice, 
The  vision's  most  divinely  molded  form 
With  human  blush  was  animate  and  warm, 

And,  o'er  and  o'er,  I  heard  my  heart  rejoice. 

L' ENVOI 

Let  poets  with  the  angels  dim  commune, 
But  give  to  me  no  vision  from  above ; 
Give  but  a  woman  lush  with  life  and  love, 

A  forest  path,  her  voice,  her  touch — and  June. 


THE  FOREST  19 


CONSTANCY. 

Tall  and  trim 
The  pine  tree  grows, 

Every  limb 
With  verdure  glows; 

Winter  keen 
Or  autumn  sere 

Finds  it  green 
Through  all  the  year. 

Life  hath  snow 
Like  winter  hath ; 

Cold  winds  blow 
Across  my  path. 

Wind  and  drift 
Go  swirling  by; 

Let  me  lift 
My  head  on  high. 

Boreas,  roll 
Thy  thunder  car — 

Still  my  soul 
Shall  seek  the  star. 

Winds  may  sweep 
Life's    woodland     through- 

I  will  keep 
My  spirit  true. 


20  IN  FOREST  LAND 

THE  OLD  POLE  BRIDGE. 

The  old  pole  bridge  was  the  road  that  led 

To  the  meadow-lands  beyond  ; 
In  the  evening  light  'twas  the  way  I  sped 

To  a  girl  who  was  fair  and  fond. 
The  old  pole  bridge  led  to  fields  of  green ; 

Yea,  it  led  to  peaceful  farms, 
The  calm  of  the  wood  and  the  rural  scene — 

And  it  led  to  a  woman's  arms. 

O'er  the  quiet  stream  its  far-flung  length 

Was  hung  like  a  mighty  thread, 
And  great  its  bulk  and  sure  its  strength — 

But  it  trembled  at  my  tread. 
As  the  old  pole  bridge,  my  heart  was  strong 

With  the  youth's  sufficiency; 
But  a  woman  sang  but  a  woman's  song 

And  I  shook  like  the  aspen  tree. 

Here  were  the  marsh  and  the  tangled  grass 

And  there  was  the  meadow  fair; 
Here  was  nothing  and  there  a  lass — 

And  heaven  was  over  there. 
At  the  end  of  the  bridge  my  heaven  lay, 

At  the  end  of  the  wooden  span ; 
For  such  is  the  charm  of  a  woman's  way 

And  such  is  the  heart  of  a  man. 

The  quiet  stream  still  softly  sings, 

The  meadow-grass  is  sweet ; 
The  old  pole  bridge  still  gently  swings, 

Awaiting  a  lover's  feet. 
They  are  far  away,  they  are  far  beyond 

The  plain  and  the  mountain  ridge ; 
But  I  know  that  a  girl  who  is  fair  and  fond 

Still  waits  at  the  old  pole  bridge. 


THE  FOREST  21 

THE  DIVERSITY  OF  NATURE. 

We  marvel  at  the  beauty  of  the  earth 

But  none  the  less  at  its  diversity ; 
In  all  the  forests  that  the  years  give  birth 

There  is  no  tree  like  to  another  tree. 
Each  has  the  features  that  its  brother  has 

Yet  has  some  beauty  that  is  all  Us  own, 
And  so  the  traveler  by  woodland  paths 

Finds  some  sweet  splendor  in  one  spot  alone. 

There  is  a  beauty  individual 

In  each  green  nook,  in  every  sylvan  scene ; 
There  is  a  velvet  on  each  generous  hill 

Exactly  like  no  other  emerald  sheen. 
Thus  we  remember  tnis  dear  place  or  that, 

A  perfect  picture,  in  itself  complete; 
'Neath  this  great  oak  once  one  beloved  sat, 

A  moment's  converse  made  this  meadow  sweet. 

For  we  shall  wander  many  sylvan  ways 

Yet  no  strange  oak  our  senses  shall  deceive, 
Stroll  other  meadows  in  the  coming  days 

And  no  false  meadow  make  our  hearts  to  grieve. 
One  oak  shall  stand  within  our  hearts  enshrined, 

One  meadow  linger  in  our  memory  still, 
Until  the  oldtime  paths  again  we  find, 

The  oak,  the  meadow  and  the  velvet  hill. 

Ah,  what  a  master  artist  Nature  is! — 

Ever  the  same,  yet  just  the  same  no  more. 
The  poet's  rimes  are  like  old  rimes  of  his, 

The  singer  sings  the  songs  he  sang  of  yore, 
But  Nature  paints  each  scene  a  different  hue, 

Models  in  different  forms  her  million  vales; 
Nature  is  ever  olden,  ever  new — 

Artist  whose  inspiration  never  fails. 


22  IN  FOREST  LAND 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

In  September,  1609,  while  Henry  Hudson's  ship  Half  Moon  was 
at  anchor  in  the  Hudson  River,  the  commander  sent  the  ship's  car 
penter  ashore  to  secure  a  new  spar  from  one  of  the  forest  trees.  Thus 
pine  first  was  felled  in  New  York. 

Here  Henry  Hudson  furled  his  sails, 

His  rusted  anchor  chains  released, 
And  knew  the  pain  of  him  who  fails 

To  find  his  heart's  alluring  East. 
He  sought  a  passage  in  the  sun 

To  Marco  Polo's  storied  land 
And  found,  when  wanderings  were  done, 

But  silent  forest,  whitened  sand. 

Yet  was  this  land  a  land  as  fair 

As  that  the  great  explorer  sought, 
This  land  a  greater  people  bare 

And  here  were  greater  wonders  wrought. 
But  asked  he  not  to  sense  the  years 

Nor  wished  the  veil  of  Time  to  raise — 
For  they  who  seek  for  hemispheres 

Find  small  content  in  quiet  bays. 

He  asked  but  shelter  from  the  sea 

Within  the  ancient  harbor  bar, 
And,  of  the  forest,  but  a  tree 

To  substitute  for  broken  spar. 
Unconsciously,  of  future  state 

He  sowed  the  first  and  potent  seed ; 
But,  than  the  future,  far  more  great 

Appeared  to  him  his  present  need. 

Thus  we  on  fame  and  gold  intent, 
Thus  we  who  mighty  things  aspire, 


THE  FOREST  23 

May  find  extended  continent 

Between  us  and  our  heart's  desire. 
And,  when  within  its  harbor  calm 

We  drop  our  rusted  anchor  chain, 
We,  too,  will  ask  no  boon  but  balm 

To  heal  our  wound  and  still  our  pain. 

Oh,  they  who  falter  by  the  way 

And  never  reach  the  other  side, 
Who  never  find  the  quiet  bay 

Where  crippled  ship  of  hope  may  ride, 
May  suffer  much — yet  suffer  ne'er 

Like  those  who  reach  the  distant  land 
And  find  not  jeweled  cities  fair 

But  silent  forest,  whitened  sand. 

And  yet,  perhaps  the  fates  unkind 

Have  borne  our  bark  to  fairer  shore 
Than  that  fair  land  we  hoped  to  find, 

Have  borne  our  bark  to  treasures  more. 
Our  pain  may  render  birth  to  love 

That  fills  our  souls  with  holier  fire 
Than  that  red  glow  that  blazed  above 

The  region  of  our  heart's  desire. 


24  7W  FOREST  LAND 


THE  BIRTH  OF  HOPE. 

Last  night  the  path  of  life  was  drear 

And  dead  leaves  shivered  in  the  breeze. 
Last  night  the  world  was  bleak  and  blear, 
And  want  and  sorrow,  pain  and  fear, 
Lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 

Dead  leaves,  dead  leaves  of  other  days, 
Touched  by  the  frost  of  fate  unkind. 

Lay  clustered  deep  in  woodland  ways 

Or  hurried  over  frozen  bays, 
Urged  by  an  unrelenting  wind. 

But  lo !  the  new  year  and  the  morn 
Came  with  the  passing  of  the  night. 

Another  life  and  world  were  born — 

The  sable  curtains,  rent  and  torn, 
Revealed  a  vista  fair  and  bright. 

The  trees,  new-leaved,  are  filled  with  bloom — 

The  buds  of  new  and  happy  hours. 
Gone  are  the  midnight  and  the  gloom, 
And  golden  shafts  of  light  illume 

Hope's  fragrant  pathway  strewn  with  flowers. 


THE  FOREST  25 

SLEEP. 

I  slept  last  night  as  the  wild  wood's  guest 

In  the  shade  of  an  ancient  tree, 
I  sank  to  rest  on  the  verdured  crest 

Of  a  hill  beside  the  sea; 

And  the  waves  sang  low  to  me: 

Sleep  by  the  waters  of  the  ocean  old, 

Lulled  by  the  song  of  the  deep, 
For  maids  give  smiles  and  men  give  gold 

But  the  good  God  gives  you  sleep, 

Yes,  the  good  God  gives  you  sleep. 

I  slept  last  night  in  the  woodland  wild 

In  the  shade  of  an  ancient  yew  ; 
On  the  forest  child  the  forest  smiled 

With  the  love  the  infant  knew ; 

And  it  sang  the  long  night  through: 

Sleep  'neath  the  branches  of  the  forest  tree 
While  the  stars  their  watches  keep ; 

The  rover's  home  and  the  captive  free 
When  the  good  God  gives  them  sleep, 
When  the  good  God  gives  them  sleep. 

Long  is  the  way  that  my  feet  must  tread, 

Weary  and  long  the  way, 
The  way  is  red  where  the  feet  have  bled 

That  have  walked  in  a  bygone  day ; 

But  I  hear  the  woodland  say: 

Sleep  at  the  end  of  the  tangled  path, 
WThere  your  soul  no  more  shall  weep ; 

You  sow  but  woe  and  you  reap  but  wrath — 
But  the  good  God  gives  you  sleep, 
Yes,  the  good  God  gives  you  sleep. 


20  IN  FOREST  LAND 


WELCOME  TO  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Bells  of  the  forest,  ring  all  your  changes ! — 

Give  us  your  merriest,  cheeriest  chime ; 
Now  through  the  woodland  a  monarch  ranges, 

The  new-born  prince  of  the  House  of  Time. 

Northern  cedar  and  southern  lime, 
Yield  of  your  perfume,  your  incense  olden : 

Wood  nymphs,  weave  your  harmonious  rime ! 
Sunrise,  light  all  your  candles  golden ! 

Bells  of  the  forest,  ring  your  cheer! 
Hail  to  the  monarch,  the  Glad  New  Year! 


THE  FOREST 


THE  UPWARD  TRAIL. 

Out  in  the  dark  wood  all  alone, 

My  only  candle  light  a  star, 
I  git  t'  thinkin'  of  the  things 

Above  the  curtain  blue  an'  far. 
They  say  thet  heaven  is  up  there, 

Thet  there  the  great  white  angels  sing ; 
I  wonder  if  that  misty  cloud 

Is  not,  perhaps,  an  angel's  wing? 
They  say  the  gates  are  made  of  pearl, 

They  say  the  streets  are  paved  with  gold 
And  thet  there  ain't  no  night  at  all, 

No  winter  wind,  no  rain  er  cold. 

Sometimes  I  think  I'd  like  to  go 

A-lookin'  through  that  land  so  fair ; 
I  wonder  if  they  ever  let 

A  timber  cruiser  in  up  there? 
I  guess  a  mackinaw  won't  do 

Alongside  of  them  angel  suits ; 
Suppose  a  man'd  dare  to  walk 

On  golden  streets  in  cowhide  boots? 
The  songs  the  shanty  fellahs  sing 

On  Sunday  nights,  when  pipes  are  low, 
Won't  do  up  there  at  all,  an'  them's 

The  only  kind  of  songs  I  know. 

But  I  have  heard  some  preacher  tell, 
Who'd  seen  it  in  a  big  black  book, 

That  once  there  was  a  Cruiser  who 
From  earth  to  heaven  made  a  look. 

This  Cruiser,  so  the  preacher  said, 
Was  estimatin'  for  us  all — 


28  IN  FOREST  LAND 

For  timber  cruisers  jest  as  much 
As  some  rich  fellah  in  St.  Paul. 

"Believe  in  God,  believe  in  men,  be  square,' 
This  preacher  used  to  say, 

"An*  you  will  find  the  trail — for  One 
Has  gone  ahead  an'  blazed  the  way." 


THE  FOREST 


AUTUMN. 

The  time  is  coming  when  the  leaves 
Shall  put  away  their  garb  of  green 

And  don  the  strange,  fantastic  weaves 
That  color  all  the  autumn  scene. 

The  crimson  gleam  and  glow  of  gold, 
The  regal  tints  of  ancient  Tyre, 

The  form  of  summer  shall  enfold 
And  set  the  woodland  ways  afire. 

And  where  the  winter's  snow  shall  lie, 
And  where  the  wind  shall  whistle  shrill, 

The  vale  shall  burn  with  autumn's  dye, 
And  autumn's  splendor  light  the  hill. 

The  summer  laughs  at  winter's  breath 
That  comes  to  lure  her  soul  to  rest, 

And  summer  hurries  forth  to  death 
In  all  her  gayest  garments  dressed. 

When  Death  shall  come  to  me,  I  pray 
Ye  garb  me  in  my  gayest  gown — 

And  I  will  meet  him  blithe  and  gay, 
And  I  will  laugh  away  his  frown. 


30  IN  FOREST  LAND 


FAMILY  TREES. 

You  boast  about  your  ancient  line, 
But  listen,  stranger,  unto  mine: 

You  trace  your  lineage  afar, 

Back  to  the  heroes  of  a  war 

Fought  that  a  country  might  be  free ; 

Yea,  farther — to  a  stormy  sea 

Where  winter's  angry  billows  tossed, 

O'er  which  your  Pilgrim  Fathers  crossed. 

Nay,  more — through  yellow,  dusty  tomes 

You  trace  your  name  to  English  homes 

Before  the  distant,  unknown  West 

Lay  open  to  a  world's  behest; 

Yea,  back  to  days  of  those  Crusades 

When  Turk  and  Christian  crossed  their  blades. 

You  point  with  pride  to  ancient  names, 

To  powdered  sires  and  painted  dames ; 

You  boast  of  this — your  family  tree ; 

Now  listen,  stranger,  unto  me: 

When  armored  knights  and  gallant  squires, 
Your  own  beloved,  honored  sires, 
Were  in  their  infants'  blankets  rolled, 
My  fathers'  youngest  sons  were  old ; 
When  they  broke  forth  in  infant  tears 
My  fathers'  heads  were  crowned  with  years. 
Yea,  ere  the  mighty  Saxon  host 
Of  which  you  sing  had  touched  the  coast, 
My  fathers,  with  time-furrowed  brow, 
Looked  back  as  far  as  you  look  now. 
Yea,  when  the  Druids  trod  the  wood, 
My  venerable  fathers  stood 


THE  FOREST 

And  gazed  through  misty  centuries 
As  far  as  even  Memory  sees. 
When  Britain's  eldest  first  beheld 
The  light,  my  fathers  then  were  eld 
You  of  the  splendid  ancestry, 
Who  boast  about  your  family  tree, 

Consider,  stranger,  this  of  mine — 
Bethink  the  lineage  of  a  Pine, 


32  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  FOREST  MORN. 

I  sometimes  think  that  thus  was  born  the  world — 
Not  like  a  blinding  sun  from  chaos  hurled 
To  blaze  and  burn  for  ages — that  it  woke 
As  wakes  the  forest,  wakes  the  verdant  oak, 
Breathing  soft  breezes,  wreathed  in  lacy  mist 
Through  which  there  burst  the  gleam  of  amethyst. 

The  forest  morn !    Across  the  night  profound 

Steals  now  the  music  of  harmonious  sound — 

The  bird's  faint  twitter,  sleepy,  sleepy  still, 

The  bird's  first  carol,  sweet,  all  sweet  and  shrill ; 

And  down  through  branches,  poured  in  generous  streams, 

Come  tints  of  dawn,  the  colors  of  our  dreams. 


THE  FOREST  33 


ONE. 

A  thousand  trees  of  different  leaf, 

A  thousand  plants  of  different  bloom, 
The  pathway  shade,  the  earth  illume — 

Yet  bow  they  all  to  one  great  chief. 

The  modest  lily,  saintly  one, 

The  vivid  orchid,  gorgeous  rose — 

Each  tree  that  breathes,  each  flower  grows, 

Turns  daily  to  a  common  sun. 

Around  me  rise  perplexing  creeds, 

As  varied  as  the  forest  trees ; 

And  each  declares  with  bended  knees 
This  is  the  dogma  for  my  needs. 

To  stray,  they  tell  me,  means  the  rod ; 
Yet,  as  the  forest  greets  the  sun, 
I  find  them  prostrate  every  one — 

All  kneeling  to  the  selfsame  God. 


34  IN  FOREST  LAND 


POET  AND  PLUTOCRAT. 

I  ask  not  pity  for  myself — 

Because  I  only  starve  and  sing — 
But  rather  for  the  slave  of  pelf 
Who  worships  but  a  single  thing. 
For  mine's  a  soul  that  lives  awing, 

And  his  a  soul  enchained  to  earth, 
And  I  from  naught  may  laughter  bring 
While  he,  poor  man,  must  buy  his  mirth. 
His  purchased  joy  has  little  worth, 

His  purchased  pleasures  pale  and  die ; 
But  slow  their  death  as  quick  their  birth, 
The  joys  that  come  to  such  as  I. 

The  fleecy  castles  in  the  sky, 

The  velvet  grasses  at  my  feet — 
The  love  of  these  he  cannot  buy 
Nor  live  without  it  life  complete. 
The  souls  within  men  make  them  sweet, 

The  hearts  within  men  are  the  gold 
That  alchemizes  humble  street 

And  warms  with  sunlight  rivers  cold. 
The  mountain  fair,  the  forest  old — 

Before  he  came  these  things  were  here; 
And,  from  them,  treasures  I  unfold 

That  all  his  wealth  may  not  bring  near. 

O  heart  of  mine,  make  me  hold  dear 

These  vague,  sweet  pleasures  freely  mine, 

And  let  no  earthly  wealth  appear 
Of  equal  value,  heart,  with  thine. 
Wouldst  take  all  women  for  the  nine 
Who  sit  with  thee  and  play  the  strings? 


THE  FOREST  35 

Wouldst  trade  for  vintage  old  the  wine 
That  comes  to  thee  on  zephyr's  wings? 
Wouldst  choose  the  toilsome  sculpturings 

Of  human  hands  o'er  Nature's  art? 
Or  for  the  song  the  siren  sings 

Forget  thine  own  sweet  song,  my  heart? 

Unknown  am  I  in  busy  mart 

And  in  the  gilded  place  unknown, 
Yet  field  and  forest  wealth  impart 

That  makes  my  humble  seat  a  throne; 
And,  seated  on  life's  wayside  stone, 

I  value  most  the  thing  that  seems — 
For  I  have  found,  in  journeys  lone, 
Our  greatest  treasures  are  our  dreams. 
Thus  ever  on  my  pathway  beams 
A  star  of  hope  to  cheer  me  on ; 
And  ever  in  my  heart  there  gleams 
The  promise  of  a  coming  dawn. 


IN  FOREST  LAND 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  SATIATED. 

When  sick  of  Arabia's  spices, 

When  weary  of  musk-laden  room, 
When  senses  themselves  grow  insensate 

And  sweetness  monotonous  gloom; 
When  weary  of  orient  incense, 

Of  odors  distilled  on  the  Rhine — 
Get  back  to  the  scent  of  the  forest 

And  breathe  you  the  breath  of  the  pine. 

When  sick  of  the  acids  and  spirits, 

When  weary  of  tinctures  and  oils, 
When  appetite,  whetted  by  drugging, 

Enfolds  you  in  serpentine  coils; 
When  Death  and  his  army  of  bottles 

Stand  marshalled  before  you  in  line — 
Escape  to  the  sheltering  forest 

And  breathe  you  the  breath  of  the  pine 

When  tired  of  the  air  of  the  city 

Deep-laden  with  grime  and  disease, 
Sense-weary,  mind-weary,  heart-weary — 

Get  back  to  the  musical  trees. 
No  incense  like  that  of  the  balsam, 

No  earth-spot  so  near  the  divine — 
Come  rest  on  the  bosom  of  Nature 

And  breathe  you  the  breath  of  the  pine. 


THE  FOREST  37 


EDELWEISS. 

I  climb  the  mountain  gray  with  rock, 

I  climb  the  mountain  white  with  snow, 
Where  gaunt,  courageous  pine  trees  mock 

The  verdure  of  the  vale  below. 
I  pass  above  the  fringe  of  pine, 

I  walk  amid  eternal  ice; 
And,  far  above  the  timber  line, 

I  find  the  dainty  Edelweiss. 

O  daughter  of  the  heights  of  cold, 

You  teach  me  courage  with  your  own 
As  steadfast  as  the  mountain  old, 

Unchanging  as  unchanging  stone. 
Teach  me  to  live  a  life  as  sweet, 

My  soul  to  bloom  through  snow  and  ice, 
That  I  life's  traveler  may  greet 

With  cheer  like  yours,  dear  Edelweiss. 


38  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  OAK  OF  MAC  GREGOR. 

When  the  men  of  MacGregor  first  breasted  the  shield 
They  looked  for  an  emblem  in  loch  and  in  field ; 
But  the  bloom  in  the  meadow  will  wither  and  die 
And  the  hot  breath  of  summer  the  fountain  will  dry. 

Then  they  looked  to  the  wood 

Where  the  forest  king  stood ; 
Beheld  they  the  oak,  and  they  said,  "It  is  good." 

The  oak  of  MacGregor  they  wore  on  their  breasts — 
'Twas  a  wall  to  their  foes  and  a  roof  to  their  guests. 
The  oak  of  MacGregor  they  crossed  with  the  sword, 
With  the  sword  and  the  oak  they  established  their  word ; 

And,  proud  of  the  blood 

Of  King  Alpin  the  good, 
On  the  point  of  the  weapon  his  diadem  stood. 

MacGregor  of  Glenstrae  at  Loch  Lomond  bore 
The  oak  of  MacGregor  in  red  ranks  of  war. 
There  the  men  of  Colquhoun  and  the  Grahams  so  bold 
Fell  as  thick  as  its  leaves  at  the  touch  of  the  cold. 

For  the  royal  old  oak 

No  foeman  e'er  broke 
To  shape  for  the  house  of  MacGregor  a  yoke. 

The  oak  of  MacGregor  has  stood  through  the  years, 

Often  baptized  with  blood,  often  nurtured  with  tears; 

O'er  the  men  of  MacGregor  its  mantle  it  flings — 

They  were  true  to  themselves  and  their  God  and  their  kings. 

They  may  wander  the  sands 

Of  the  faraway  lands, 
But  the  oak  of  MacGregor  in  splendor  yet  stands. 


THE  FOREST  39 

HERE  WILL  BE  THE  END  OF  MY  VOYAGE. 

May  16,  1675,  Pere  Marquette  entered  the  mouth  of  a  small  river 
on  the  western  shore  of  Lake  Michigan,  known  on  the  old  maps  as 
"Riviere  du  P.  Marquette."  He  erected  an  altar  for  the  purpose 
of  saying  mass  and  asked  to  be  left  alone  for  half  an  hour.  When 
his  companions  returned  they  found  him  dead.  While  landing, 
the  good  man  had  said  to  them,  "Here  will  be  the  end  of  my  voyage." 

O  Father,  when,  like  thee,  I  reach 

The  final  land,  my  journey  o'er, 
When  grates  my  boat  upon  the  beach, 

The  life  eternal's  earthly  shore; 

O  Father,  when  the  hour  shall  come 

That  I  may  quit  this  fragile  bark 
And  enter  that  celestial  home 

I  see  but  dimly  in  the  dark — 

May  I,  like  thee,  my  vessel  moor 

In  some  sequestered  harbor  still 
Where  all  is  fair  and  all  is  pure 

And  pine  trees  whisper  on  the  hill. 

Yea,  I  would  have  my  journey  end 

In  some  undesecrated  place 
Where  overhanging  cedars  bend 

To  shield  the  lily's  virgin  face. 

For  I  would  sleep  'mid  Nature's  calm 

In  some  cathedral  in  the  wood 
Where  every  echo  is  a  psalm 

That  singeth,  singeth  "God  is  good." 

And  when,  like  thine,  my  bark  is  sent 

To  other  lands  without  me,  friend, 
May  I,  like  thee,  lie  down  content 

And  whisper,  "Here  will  be  the  end." 


40  /Ar  FOREST  LAND 


THE  DRUIDS  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

Yea,  I  have  heard  their  solemn  chants, 

Their  old,  unwritten  ritual, 
Beheld  the  robed  inhabitants 

Of  altared  hill  and  cloistered  dell. 
They  gather  in  the  oaken  grove 

When  midnight  bells  have  rung  their  chime, 
And  through  their  changing  circles  move — 

The  Druids  of  the  olden  time. 

Through  marshaled  oaks  their  steps  they  weave; 

Their  paths  are  bright  with  vervain  bloom; 
And,  ever  as  they  pass,  they  leave 

The  scent  of  hyssop  in  the  gloom. 
Their  hassocks  are  the  springing  sods; 

They  speak  their  faith  by  rote  and  rime; 
They  sing  the  praise  of  Nature's  gods — 

The  Druids  of  the  olden  time. 

These  shapes  are  ghosts  of  men  that  were, 

Their  old  religion,  like  them,  dead. 
They  thought  their  pagan  faith  was  sure, 

Yet  other  gods  men  love  instead. 
Our  faith,  at  most,  is  but  a  dream 

But,  if  mistaken,  still  sublime — 
And  that  sweet  virtue  shall  redeem 

The  Druids  of  the  olden  time. 


THE  FOREST  41 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  BOTANIST. 

I  long  for  the  land  of  the  pinus  palustris 

Where  the  liriodendron  is  bursting  to  bloom, 

Where  taxodium  distichum  faithful,  industr'ous, 
Is  waving  in  sadness  o'er  Clementine's  tomb. 

Twas  under  the  spreading  hicoria  pecan 
We  pledged  our  fond  love  by  the  light  of  the  stars ; 

"If  any  be  faithful,"  we  whispered,  "then  we  can," 
While  leaning  at  eve  o'er  the  fraxinus  bars. 

A  flower  from  the  sweet  asimina  triloba 

She  pinned  on  my  coat  as  I  bade  her  farewell ; 

But  her  love  grew  as  cold  as  the  far  Manitoba 

And  my  hopes  like  the  frost-bitten  autumn  leaves  fell. 

They  planted  catalpa,  the  fair  speciosa, 

They  planted  the  bush  and  the  tree  and  the  vine, 

They  planted  a  sprig  of  robinia  viscosa 

And,  underneath  these,  planted  poor  Clementine. 


42  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  MAGIC  OF  THE  MOON. 

Sometimes  I  doubt ;  sometimes,  when  heartstrings  ache, 
I  look  in  vain  through  all  the  world  for  cheer ; 

The  sun's  last  rays  the  westward  sky  forsake, 
And,  east  or  west,  the  road  is  dark  and  drear. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  starless  night ; 

The  clouds  of  hate  and  wrong  enwrap  my  soul ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  endless  fight 

And  I  would  seek  no  more  to  find  the  goal. 

For  what  is  life,  that  man  should  break  his  heart 
By  living  it?    And  what,  yea  what,  is  death? 

What  holds  the  world,  that  we  should  dread  to  part 
From  bread  begrudged,  from  pain  and  labored  breath? 

Then  o'er  the  wood  there  mounts  a  perfect  orb, 
A  stately  queen,  the  mistress  of  the  night  ; 

And  her  bright  rays  the  skulking  shades  absorb 
And  bathe  the  hidden  way  in  floods  of  light. 

The  river  chill  with  heaven's  glow  is  warmed 

And,  far  ahead,  a  beacon  beckons  on ; 
Across  a  land  new-featured  and  transformed 

A  path  of  silver  leads  to  brighter  dawn. 

The  way  of  peace  is  opened  unto  me 

And,  on  my  brow,  I  feel  a  tender  kiss. 
'Tis  not  the  stern,  gray  world  it  seems  to  be — 

It  is  the  fairy  world  it  really  is. 


THE  FOREST  43 


THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  THE  FOREST. 

I  love  the  man  who  loves  the  wood, 
Whate'er  his  creed,  whate'er  his  blood. 
I  may  not  know  his  native  land ; 
His  creed  I  may  not  understand ; 
But,  when  we  meet  within  the  wood, 
There  each  is  silent — understood. 

We  worship  then  at  selfsame  shrine ; 
We  see  the  same  celestial  shine 
On  lustrous  leaf,  on  petaled  flower; 
We  feel  the  selfsame  grace  and  power ; 
Yea,  kneeling  on  the  selfsame  sod, 
We  worship  both  the  selfsame  God. 

I  give  who  loves  the  wood  my  hands, 
For  here  is  one  who  understands; 
WTho  loves  the  wood  I  give  my  heart, 
For  there  responsive  echoes  start; 
We  meet  in  this  sweet  brotherhood— 
We  meet  as  brothers  of  the  wood. 


44  IN  FOREST  LAND 


SPRING. 

You  fellahs  in  the  city  think  you  know  when  spring  is  here — 
You  talk  about  the  "ozone"  an'  the  "balmy  atmosphere" ; 
The  smoke  of  busy  chimneys  takes  a  diff'rent  kind  of  hue, 
An'  sometimes  you  imagine  thet  the  sky  is  really  blue ; 
The  florist  sets  his  posies  out  upon  the  sidewalk  now  ; 
You  kin  hear  a  tugboat  chuggin'  up  the  river  with  a  scow ; 
You  feel  a  fresh  ambition  in  your  race  fer  worldly  goods — 
But  there  ain't  no  spring  whatever,  though,  exceptin'  in  the 
woods. 

In  the  woods  the  buds  are  bustin',  in  the  woods  the  grass  is 

green ; 

There  ain't  no  iron  railin's  there,  your  feet  an'  grass  between; 
In  the  woods  a  bird  is  singin' — spillin'  joy  to  beat  the  cars — 
An'  he  ain't  no  sick  canary  cheepin'  mournful  through  the 

bars. 
In  the  woods  the  sun  is  shinin',  siftin'  softly  through  the 

trees ; 
In  the  woods  the  sweetest  perfume  travels  on  the  mornin' 

breeze ; 
In  the  woods  the  flowers  are  peepin'  from  their  little  velvet 

hoods — 
Oh,  there  ain't  no  spring  whatever  like  the  springtime  in  the 

woods! 

You  kin  have  your  city  springtime,  when  the  band  begins  to 

play 
An*  the  parks  is  gittin'  greener  while  your  hair  is  gittin' 

gray; 
You  kin  have  your  city  springtime,  with  its  mud  an'  soot  an' 

noise, 
Fer  up  here  on  the  river  spring  is  here  with  all  its  joys. 


•Sifl  in1   softly    tliroiiRli    tlio   trees"1 


THE  FOREST  45 

>r  there  ain't  no  bands  make  music  like  the  robin's  throaty 

trill ; 

'here  ain't  no  park  has  grasses  like  the  grasses  on  the  hill, 
'he  party  in  the  city  has  more  gold,  perhaps,  an'  goods- 
Jut  the  world  belongs,  in  springtime,  to  the  fellah  in  the 

woods, 


46  IN  FOREST  LAND 

THE  ACCESSORY. 

She  went  to  church  in  holy  zeal, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
She  paused,  while  on  the  steps,  to  kneel, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
The  parson  preached,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill,' 
And  God  she  thanked,  with  conscious  thrill 
That  she,  good  soul,  had  done  no  ill — 
With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 

She  loved  to  hear  the  birdlings  sing, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
She  loved  to  watch  them  free  awing, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
She  thought  how  sad  the  world  would  be 
If  ne'er  their  plumage  we  might  see 
Or  hear  their  warblings  in  the  tree — 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 

She  held  her  home  the  dearest,  best, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
She  called  her  little  home  her  "nest," 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
Her  brood  she  circled  with  her  arm 
To  keep  each  happy  child  from  harm, 
To  still  her  own  strange,  vague  alarm — 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 

She  could  not  bear  death's  form  to  see, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
She  could  not  look  on  cruelty, 

With  a  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 
She  wept  at  others'  sufferings, 
She  gave  her  life  to  holy  things, 
And  wore  the  "loveliest  of  wings — " 

A  dead  bird  on  her  hat. 


THE  FOREST  47 

THE  LUMBER  CAMP  CAT. 

O  lumber  camp  cat,  I  envy  your  lot — how  happy,  how  happy 

your  fate! 
For  you,  from  the  midst  of  this  civilized  rot,  have  gone  back 

to  your  natural  state. 
No  bootjacks  for  you  now  go  speeding  through  air,   you 

may  love  in  your  passionate  way ; 
With  a  bosom  unruffled  by  worry  or  care  you  may  warble 

your  beautiful  lay. 
No  boys  now  pursue  you,  O  fortunate  cat,  no  dogs  chase 

you  up  street  and  down ; 
When  you  bask  in  the  sun  now  no  woman  cries  "Scat!"  as 

women  once  did  in  the  town. 
No  more  you  dodge  autos  and  bikes  in  the  street,  as  cats  in 

the  city  must  do — 
For  you  travel   through   ways   that   are   shady   and   sweet, 

under  skies  that  are  sunny  and  blue. 

No  infantile  darling  now  tugs  at  your  tail,  while  mother  the 

picture  enjoys; 
You  are  out  of  the  city,  that  merciless  jail,  away  from  the 

soot  and  the  noise. 

0  lumber  camp  cat,  I  envy  your  lot,  a  living  so  joyous  and 

good; 

1  wish  I  might  ditch  all  this  civilized  rot  and  join  you  up 

there  in  the  wood. 
We  would  wander  by  day  through  the  grove  and  the  plain, 

we  would  sleep  on  a  pillow  of  pine ; 
We  would  roll  in  the  sun,  we  would  bathe  in  the  rain,  we 

would  live  out-of-doors,  pussy  mine. 
Out-of-doors!    Out-of-doors!    As  the  nightwind  came  down 

we  would  sip  from  a  chalice  of  dew, 
If,  instead  of  a  man  close  imprisoned  in  town,  I  were  only 

a  kitten  like  you. 


48  IN  FOREST  LAND 

THE  LOVER  AND  THE  HUNTER. 

A  man  to  woman  fondly  swore 

By  stars,  by  moon,  by  God  Himself, 
He  held  her  dearer,  loved  her  more, 

Than  soul  or  life  or  place  or  pelf. 
He  pledged  their  troth  by  all  above 

In  sentences  the  tenderest — 
Yet,  when  he  came  to  see  his  love, 

He  wore  a  dagger  in  his  breast. 

He  told  her  how  he  loved — declared 

His  faith  would  evermore  endure ; 
He  loved  the  field  o'er  which  she  fared 

Because  her  feet  had  made  it  pure. 
There  came  a  time  when  serpent  hissed 

And  to  his  heart  a  doubting  crept  ; 
Her  arms  he  twined,  her  lips  he  kissed — 

And  then  he  killed  her  while  she  slept. 

Another  was  who  Nature  loved, 

Who  swore  as  freely  by  his  God ; 
He  loved  the  leaves  where  shadows  moved, 

He  loved  the  flowers  and  the  sod. 
He  called  the  great  Creator  good 

Who  gave  to  man  the  forest  land — 
Yet,  when  he  wandered  to  the  wood, 

Death's  instrument  was  in  his  hand. 

He  Nature  loved — he  loved  the  trees 

In  which  the  birds  sang  roundelays, 
He  loved  to  breathe  the  morning  breeze 

Where  gentle  deer  trod  woodland  ways. 
He  Nature  loved — yet  came  he  armed 

With  old,  man-made  tradition  still; 
He  wandered  to  the  region  charmed 

To  worship  Nature — and  to  kill. 


THE  FOREST  49 


FOREST,  GIVE  ME  OF  THY  GREEN. 

O  forest,  give  me  of  thy  green ; 

O  morning,  give  me  of  thy  dew; 
O  lily,  give  me  of  thy  sheen ; 
O  heaven,  give  me  of  thy  blue, 

The  turquoise  of  the  summertime ; 
O  wild  rose,  give  me  of  thy  hue — 
And  I  will  weave  them  into  rime. 

And  some  poor  soul  enslaved  by  wrong, 

Yea,  some  poor  soul  these  sweets  denied, 
Mayhap  shall  hear  my  humble  song, 
Afar  from  brook  and  mountainside, 
Mayhap  shall  hear  it  and  shall  see 
Beyond  the  walls  of  pain  and  pride 
These  things  that  ye  reveal  to  me. 


50  IN  FOREST  LAND 

THE  FOREST  ON  THE  SHORE. 

O  chosen  land  of  liberty, 

I  love,  of  all,  the  most 
The  splendor  of  thy  forest  tree 
That  waves  to  him  across  the  sea 

A  welcome  to  thy  coast. 

Its  spreading  branches  typify 

The  nation's  open  arms, 
vVhere  heavy-laden  soul  may  lie 
And  know  that  no  oppressor's  cry 

Shall  wake  it  to  alarms. 

Its  leaves  a-tremble  sing  the  song 

A  mother  croons  at  eve ; 
They  sing  triumphant  over  wrong, 
They  cheer  the  lagging  feet  along 

And  soothe  the  hearts  that  grieve. 

For  this  thy  emblem,  land  of  mine, 

The  forest  on  the  shore — 
Thy  singing  spruce  and  giant  pine 
And  all  that  grand  and  regal  line 

That  lives  forevermore. 

And  he  who  comes  from  overseas 

Shall  hear  its  minstrelsy, 
Shall  hear  upon  the  evening  breeze 
That  rustles  through  the  leafy  trees 

The  music  of  the  free. 

And  he  shall  feel  the  holy  calm 

These  altared  shores  invoke, 
Behold,  'mid  tones  of  freedom's  psalm 
A  land  as  peaceful  as  the  palm, 

Enduring  as  the  oak. 


THE  FOREST  51 

THE  SPORTSMAN. 

Above  all  creatures  man  was  blessed 

With  understanding  by  the  God 
Who  out  of  chaos  and  unrest 

Brought  forth  the  earth  an  Adam  trod. 
The  greater  strength  God  gave  the  brute, 

The  greater  speed  to  thing  afield, 
Yet  gave  the  less  the  attribute 

That  made  the  strong  to  weaker  yield. 

God  gave  this  weapon  for  defense, 

God  gave  to  man  the  greater  brain ; 
Yet  who  shall  say  by  God's  intents 

The  one  shall  perish,  one  remain? 
Did  God  make  men  that  they  might  kill? 

Did  God  make  brutes  that  they  might  die? 
Did  God  surrender  thus  His  will 

And  give  His  sword  to  such  as  I? 

I  cannot  think  the  God  who  gives 

The  breath  to  any  living  thing, 
To  any  beast  in  forest  lives, 

To  any  bird  that  soars  awing— 
Gives  living  things  to  men  for  play 

To  feed  men's  savage  instincts  still, 
Gives  living  things  to  men  to  slay 

Because  they  hold  it  sweet  to  kill. 

No  man  has  shed  a  creature's  blood 

And  been  the  better  for  the  deed ; 
No  God  omnipotent  and  good 

Esteems  to  kill  a  human  need. 
Claim  no  commission  from  your  God 

To  kill  for  sport  or  slay  for  pelf ; 
And,  when  with  blood  you  bathe  the  sod, 

Hold  none  responsible  but  self. 


52  IN  FOREST  LAND 


SHADOW  AND  SUN. 

The  old  man's  house  from  the  street  sets  back,  down  there  in 

his  sawmill  town. 
His  settin' -room's  big  as  this  whole  darn  shack,  an'  the  stone 

on  the  front  is  brown. 
There's  a  roof  on  that  mansion  of  his  so  proud,  the  roof  on 

mine  is  the  sky; 
He  watches  shadows — I  watch  the  cloud,  the  white  cloud 

driftin*  by. 
He  watches  shadows  creep  up  the  wall,  he  grasps  for  shadowy 

things ; 
I  watch  the  sunlight  higher  crawl  an'  hear  each  bird  that 

sings. 
He  watches  shadows  thet  toward  him  run  with  fingers  long 

an'  chill; 
But  the  rocks  are  warm  with  the  morning  sun,  an'  the  grass 

is  green  on  the  hill. 
Oh,  I've  the  sun  an'  the  sky  so  clear  an'  the  night  wind  an' 

the  star; 
An'  I  am  done  with  the  things  that  were,  content  with  the 

things  thet  are. 


THE  FOREST  53 


THE  GALLANT  OAK. 

When  ouce  the  New  Year  came  to  earth, 
To  claim  his  realm  by  right  of  birth, 
A  forest  knight,  the  gallant  oak, 
Upon  the  pathway  threw  his  cloak. 
The  garment  green,  now  turned  to  brown, 
Upon  the  bare  earth  fluttered  down 
And  o'er  the  velvet  to  his  throne 
The  New  Year  walked  unto  his  own. 

Then  gave  the  New  Year  a  decree 
To  every  bush  and  forest  tree 
That  every  growing,  blooming  thing 
Should  hail  the  mighty  oak  as  king. 
Yea,  more,  he  made  the  king  of  trees 
A  ruler  of  the  running  seas, 
In  ships  to  bear  from  shore  to  shore 
The  earth's  discovered  treasures  o'er. 

Then  called  he  Springtime  to  his  side, 
Old  Winter's  pink-limbed,  blushing  bride, 
And  bade  her  weave  a  regal  cloak 
To  cover  new  the  gallant  oak. 
And  so  she  wove  a  gown  of  green, 
The  richest  earth  had  ever  seen, 
And  garbed  anew  the  mighty  tree 
With  emblem  of  his  majesty. 


64  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  GARB  OF  GLORY. 

They  wore  the  gray  in  the  old,  old  day, 

And  blue  was  the  garb  of  these ; 
They  felt  the  press  in  the  Wilderness 

When  thunders  shook  the  trees. 
They  felt  the  press  in  the  Wilderness 

When  the  ramparts  burst  to  flame, 
They  gave  their  years  and  their  women's  tears. 

With  never  a  thought  of  fame. 
Now  gun  is  still  and  sword  in  sheath 
And  we  weave  for  both  the  laurel  wreath. 

They  wore  the  gray  in  the  ended  fray, 

And  blue  was  the  garb  of  these; 
But  the  sons  of  gray  wear  the  blue  today 

And  the  wood  sings  harmonies. 
The  sons  are  they  of  the  men  in  gray 

But  blue  are  their  mother's  eyes, 
And  the  skies  of  gray  are  blue  alway 

With  the  blue  of  southern  skies. 
On  the  brows  of  the  men  in  blue  appears 
The  silver  gray  of  the  vanished  years. 


THE  FOREST  55 


THE  FAIR  ONE. 

One  came  from  the  land  of  Sahara 

With  orient  colors  ablaze; 
She  was  fair  with  the  beauty  of  Sarah, 

The  Sarah  of  Abraham's  days. 
The  sands  of  the  desert  as  yellow 

The  trinket  she  wore  on  her  breast, 
The  fruit  of  old  Egypt  as  mellow 

The  lips  that  the  sunshine  caressed. 
Her    eyes    were    twin    fountains    of    splendor, 

Two  wells  that  the  starlight  revealed, 
Now  melting,  appealing  and  tender, 

Now  bright  with  a  love  unconcealed. 
The  sun  and  the  zephyr  had  brought  her 

The  hue  of  the  Levantine  clime. 
Fair,  fair,  was  the  Orient's  daughter, 

A  dream  of  an  Abraham's  time. 

A  child  of  the  forest  the  other, 

A  daughter  of  cedar  and  pine, 
The  bird  of  the  forest  her  brother, 

The  sister  of  lily  and  vine. 
Black  as  ravens  her  glorious  tresses, 

Dark  her  eyes  as  a  midnight  of  storm, 
But  the  glow  that  the  sunset  possesses 

Made  her  temples  the  heavens  as  warm. 
Red  her  lips  as  the  red  of  the  berry 

When  the  leaves  of  the  summer  are  gone, 
Soft  her  voice  as  the  song  of  a  fairy, 

Light  her  step  as  the  step  of  a  fawn. 
The  sunshine,  the  zephyr,  that  kissed  her 

Had  crowned  her  the  Occident's  queen — 
Fair,  fair,  as  her  Orient  sister, 

The  child  of  the  forest  of  green. 


56  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Yet  each  wore  the  heart  of  a  woman 

And  each  knew  the  love  of  a  man  ; 
Thus  each  did  some  pathway  illumine, 

Played  her  part  in  a  God-given  plan. 
Who  shall  say  that  the  lily  is  fairest, 

More  fair  than  the  orchid  or  rose, 
If  each  to  some  bosom  is  dearest, 

If  each  in  some  solitude  glows? 
For  this  is  the  measure  of  beauty — 

"Tis  beauty  that  loves  and  that  serves; 
For  this  is  the  measure  of  duty — 

That  duty  nor  alters  nor  swerves. 
Yea,  gold  is  all  gold  the  world  over, 

In  forest  or  desert  possessed, 
And  a  heart  that  is  true,  to  the  lover 

Is  ever  the  fairest  and  best. 


THE  FOREST  57 

IMMORTALITY. 

For  there  is  hope  of  a  tree,  if  it  be  cut  down,   that  it  will  sorout 
again. — Job  14.7. 

There  is  no  end  of  life.     The  tree  that  falls 
Beneath  the  ax,  or  shattered  by  the  storm, 
Gives  up  but  that  which  was  its  show  of  strength; 
Its  wealth  of  blossoms  and  its  breathing  leaves, 
The  trunk  that  marked  the  progress  of  its  years, 
These  only  die.     The  life  sap  still  is  there, 
Still  there  the  soil,  still  there  the  bending  sky, 
Still  there  the  sun  that  warmed  its  crown  of  green, 
Still  there  the  springs  that  fed  its  hidden  roots. 
So,  from  its  shattered  form,  new  life  shall  come, 
New  leave?  put  forth,  new  blossoms  deck  the  glen, 
And  where  it  was  the  tree  again  shall  be. 

There  is  no  end  of  life.     The  man  who  falls 
But  dies  as  dies  the  trunk  of  fallen  tree, 
To  live  again  in  richer  garb  and  hue. 
For,  in  the  tree,  life's  essence  still  is  there, 
And,  in  the  man,  the  soul  may  never  die — 
It  does  but  drop  the  thing  that  once  it  was, 
Its  earthly  form.     Its  life  it  still  retains 
And,  mounting  upward,  lifts  its  golden  bloom 
Where,  in  its  earthly  shape,  it  might  not  reach. 
Yea,  mounting  upward,  casts  its  petaled  shower 
Upon  the  footsteps  of  the  mighty  throne 
That  gave  it  life. 

Trees  fall,  men  die,  worlds  change, 
But  life  lives  on  and  on. 

For  to  the  soul 
There  comes  no  death,  there  is  no  end  of  life. 


58  IN  FOREST  LAND 


WHO  UNDERSTANDS. 

O  there  is  this,  unhappy  heart, 

That  makes  thee  like  the  solemn  wood 
Where  many  pass:     How  seldom  art 

Thou  understood. 

Yet  cometh  one  who  seems  to  feel 
What  heart  and  forest  feel  in  tune, 

Who  loves  with  heart  and  wood  to  kneel 
And  there  commune. 

The  heart  will  give  him  of  its  sigh, 

The  wood  will  clasp  him  with  its  hands ; 

For,  see!    A  stranger  draweth  nigh 
Who  understands. 


THE  CAMP 


THE  LUMBERJACK. 

An  untamed  creature  of  the  forest  wilds, 
He  lives  to  that  wild  place  a  soul  akin — 
A  man  whose  days  are  often  steeped  in  sin, 

And  yet  whose  heart  is  tender  as  a  child's. 

His  strength  is  like  the  strength  of  mighty  pines, 
His  outward  form  a  bark  of  many  scars ; 
His  head  he  carries  proudly  in  the  stars, 

The  while  his  feet  are  meshed  in  tangled  vines. 

Calamities  throw  viselike  tendrils  out 
To  seize  him  in  their  hindering  embrace ; 
The  thorns  of  wrong  whip  sharply  in  his  face 

And  poisoned  things  encompass  him  about. 

He  braves  disease,  the  storm,  the  falling  tree, 

The  mad,  quick  water  that  would  hold  and  drown 
But  all  earth's  terrors  cannot  bear  him  down 

Or  make  this  man  of  dangers  bend  the  knee. 

He  breathes  the  air  the  sturdy  maple  breathes, 
He  walks  the  soil  the  selfsame  maple  feeds ; 
To  forest  sources  looks  he  for  his  needs — 

Oh,  where  are  trees  and  men  like  unto  these? 


59 


60  IN  FOREST  LAND 


WHEN  PATTI  SANG  AT  36. 

We  hadn't  seen  no  petticoat  in  more'n  ninety  days, 

We  hadn't  seen  no  lady  in  a  year; 
There  wasn't  no  gazabo  but  whose  eyes  was  sore  to  gaze 

Jest  once  ag'in  upon  some  pretty  dear. 
When  he's  up  there  in  the  timber,  then  a  fellah  sorter  dreams 

Of  women's  smiles  an'  women's  lips  an'  eyes; 
When  you're  fur  enough  away  from  her,  then  woman  sorter 
seems 

To  be  a  kind  of  angel  in  disguise. 

We  was  camped,  as  you  remember,  up  on  Section  28, 

Where  Thompson's  strip  of  timber  growed  so  thick, 
An'  was  tearin'  up  the  forest  at  a  most  amazin'  rate, 

For  the  Feb'uary  thaws  was  comin'  quick. 
We  went  to  work  by  moonlight  an'  we  worked  all  day  like 
dogs, 

Fer  the  boss  had  said  he'd  do  the  proper  thing 
By  ev'ry  man  among  us  if  six  million  feet  of  logs 

Was  gethered  on  the  rollways  in  the  spring. 

There  wudn't    been  no  trouble  if    the  team  thet    brought 
supplies 

Hadn't  brought  along  a  notice  with  the  load, 
Containin'  an  announcement  of  a  sort  of  a  su*  prise 

To  happen  in  a  camp  jest  down  the  road. 
It  seems  a  troupe  of  actors  thet  was  passing  by  that  way 

(These  fellahs  thet  perform  all  kinds  of  tricks) 
Was  hesitatin'  in  our  midst  jest  long  enough  to  play 

An  engagement  of  one  night  at  36. 

One  statement  on  the  handbill  hit  us  hard  an'  hit  us  strong, 
One  name  alone  stood  out  above  the  rest; 


THE  CAMP  61 

It  said  thet  Mrs.  Patti,  the  accomplished  queen  of  song, 

Wud  heave  a  few  selections  from  her  chest. 
Six  million  feet  or  nothin',  do  you  think  we  cud  resist 

The  chance  to  see  a  woman  such  as  that? 
We  didn't  tell  the  boss,  but  we  determined  to  assist 

In  greetin'  Mrs.  Patti  with  eclat. 

We  rummaged  through  our  duffle  fer  the  proper  clothes  to 
wear 

To  make  the  right  impression  on  the  queen ; 
Mike  Flannigan  got  reckless,  changed  his  socks  an'  combed 
his  hair — 

Such  fixin's  up  that  camp  had  never  seen. 
There  wasn't  not  a  swamper  ner  a  teamster  in  the  crew 

But  longed  with  Patti  great  to  make  a  hit, 
There  wasn't  not  a  fellah  in  the  whole  darned  camp  but  knew 

He  could  win  the  dame  if  he  spruced  up  a  bit. 

We  knocked  off  work  at  5  o'clock  that  night  instid  of  8, 

In  spite  of  how  the  boss  got  up  an'  swore ; 
We  wuldn't  take  no  chances,  any  man,  of  bein'  late, 

An'  we  had  to  tramp  a  good  twelve  miles  er  more. 
We  landed  at  the  bunkhouse  down  on  Section  36 

Jest  when  the  blanket  curtain  wafted  up; 
An'  ev'ry  man  was  handsome,  even  Ole  an'  the  Micks, 

An'  glad  he  didn't  stop  behind  to  sup. 

An'  then  the  show  was  started.    A  fellah  made  a  speech, 

Another  actor  played  a  tambourine ; 
iBut  we  was  all  a-stretchin'  necks  as  fur  as  they  wud  reach, 

A-waitin'  fer  the  comin'  of  the  queen. 
At  last  a  dude  stepped  up  in  front  an'  said  he'd  introduce 

A  feature  thet  in  cities  was  the  rage ; 
He  said,  with  our  permission,  he  intended  to  turn  loose 

"The  female  impersonator  of  the  age." 


62  IN  FOREST  LAND 

He  said  that  Mr.  Somethin'ton  would  now  impersonate 

One  Adelina  Patti,  as  announced ; 
And  us  poor  devils  thet  had  tramped  twelve  miles  from  21 

At  them  remarks  of  his,  we  fairly  bounced. 
An*  then  the  "male  soprano,"  the  "impersonator"  cuss, 

Got  up  an'  started  singin' — er  he  tried  ; 
But  they  couldn't  ring  that  kind  of  Mrs.  Patti  in  on  us — 

The  "permission"  they  requested  we  denied. 

Them  people  down  at  36  they  thought  the  show  was  good ; 

They  wanted  us  to  let  the  singer  be ; 
They  tried  to  tell  us  fellahs  thet  we  hadn't  understood — 

An'  that's,  I  guess,  what  caused  the  jamboree. 
We  put  the  show  troupe  in  the  snow,  the  bunkhouse  on  th 
bum, 

We  drank  up  all  the  forty-rod  in  sight ; 
An*  some  of  us  got  home  next  day — yes,  some  of  us — ar 
some 

Come  trailin'  in  along  on  Tuesday  night. 

An'  right  on  top  of  all  of  this  there  come  a  sudden  thaw, 

The  roads  give  out,  the  logs  stayed  on  the  skids ; 
Then  Thompson  he  come  up  himself  an'  read  to  us  the  law 

An'  made  us  all  feel  like  a  bunch  o*  kids. 
We  didn't  cut  six  million  feet,  we  got  no  extra  pay, 

We  never  work  fer  Thompson  any  more ; 
But  if  that  "impersonator"  ever  happens  up  your  way  — 

Well,  he's  the  cuss  thet  I'm  a-lookin'  for. 


THE  CAMP  63 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON. 

Woods  work  isn't  any  snap — guess  I  needn't  tell  you  tltat — 
We  ain't  up  here  fer  our  health,  or  no  pleasure  jaunt  er  bat; 
Up  before  the  sun  is  up,  in  the  timber  with  the  morn — 
Woods  work  isn't  any  snap — that's  as  sure  as  you  are  born. 
But  there  ain't  no  job  on  earth  thet's  a  snap,  if  we  could 

know ; 

Other  jobs  look  like  a  cinch  just  because  we  think  they're  so. 
I  ain't  no  complainin'  cuss,  camp-inspectin',  lazy  loon; 
I  git  grub  an'  I  git  sleep — an'  there's  Sunday  afternoon. 

Sunday  afternoon  in  camp — that's  the  joyful  time  fer  me; 
Quite  as  good  as  well-earnt  rest  nothing  else  in  life  kin  be. 
Dinner  underneath  your  belt,  sun  a-shinin'  from  the  west — 
That's  the  time  to  stretch  yourself  an'  just  set  an'  rest  an' 

rest. 
An',  while  you're  a-settin'  there,  how  the  sunshine  warms 

you  through — 
Drives  the  winter  from  your  bones,  drives  away  your  thoughts 

o'  blue. 
Some  folks  talk  about  the  stars,  some  folks  sing  about  the 

moon; 
Give  to  me  the  westward  sun  on  a  Sunday  afternoon. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  time  don't  count  fer  very  much; 
You  jest  set  there  dreamin'  things,  dreamin'  things  to  beat 

the  Dutch. 
Seems  there  ain't  no  world  but  this — just  the  snow  an'  sky 

an'  sun — 
Seems  the  lumber  camp's  your  world,  an'  there  ain't  no  other 

one. 
You  fergit  thet  there's  a  town,  plumb  fergit  all   care   an' 

strife, 


64  IN  FOREST  LAND 

An'  you  draw  long  breaths  of  air  an'  you  say  "Well,  this  is 

life!" 

Ev'ry  rustle  of  the  pines,  ev'ry  whisper,  seems  in  tune, 
An'  your  little  world  is  bright  on  a  Sunday  afternoon. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  you  kin  set  outside  an'  read 

How  the  fellahs  in  the  world  down  the  river  way  "succeed," 

How  they  grapple  throat  an'  throat,  how  they  fight  the  fight 

fer  bread — 

Mighty  poor  in  happiness,  but  they're  "worth  a  million"  dead. 
Those  poor  devils  think  they're  rich,  people  call  'em  wealthy 

men; 
But  they'd  give  their  hoarded  wealth  just  to  live  life  o'er 

again. 

In  December  days  they  long  for  the  sunny  days  of  June, 
For  they  never  know  the  peace  of  a  Sunday  afternoon. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  then  the  paper  thet  you  hold, 

While  you  read  an'  think  an'  dream,  like  as  not  is  two  weeks 

old. 

You  are  rusty  on  your  dates,  calendars  you  never  see ; 
An'  you  measure  spring  an'  fall  by  the  sap  thet's  in  the  tree. 
Almanacs  an'  calendars  are  the  handiwork  of  men, 
But  the  men  who  made  the  things  cannot  turn  'em  back 

again. 
I  don't  know  who  named  the  month,  called  it  March  or  called 

it  June; 
But  one  thing  I  know  fer  sure — God  made  Sunday  afternoon. 


THE  CAMl>  65 


UP  IN  THE  WOODS. 

They're  cuttin'  of  a  tote  road  through  the  hemlock  on  the 
hill, 

I  kin  hear  their  axes  ringin'  in  my  dreams ; 
An'  I'm  gittin'  kind  o'  weary  of  the  work  around  the  mill 
An'  I'm  gittin'  kind  o'  nervous  an'  it's  hard  a-settin'  still, 

Fer  I  think  I  hear  the  pawin'  of  the  teams. 
Boss  was  into  town  last  night  a-layin'  in  of  beans, 

Of  pork  an'  prunes  an'  other  kinds  o'  goods; 
An'  there's  somethin'  down  inside  me  that's  a-tellin'  what 

it  means, 
An'  darned  if  I  ain't  wishing  now  fer  other  sights  an'  scenes, 

A-longin'  to  git  back  up  in  the  woods. 

Now,  why  a  man  should  want  to  go  up  in  the  woods  at  all 

Is  somethin'  I  can't  seem  to  understand. 
I  can't  see  nothin'  pleasant  in  the  ordinary  haul, 
An'  yet  I'm  kind  o'  restless  when  the  leaves  begin  to  fall 

An'  spread  their  fancy  carpet  on  the  land. 
There's  surely  other  methods  with  a  heap  sight  more  o'  fun 

Fer  men  like  me  to  earn  their  livelihoods; 
They  roll  you  out  at  four  o'clock  beneath  the  jobber's  sun, 
An'  the  stars  are  all  a-shinin'  when  the  day's  hard  work  is 
done — 

An'  yet  I  want  to  git  up  in  the  woods. 


66  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  OLD  ACCORDION. 

We  hadn't  no  great  pipe  organ,  ner  any  piano  grand; 
We  heard  no  fancy  music  that  we  cudn't  understand. 
There  wasn't  no  Wagner  business  er  Mister  Meddlesome; 
Yet  we  never  lacked  fer  music — as  was  music,  too,  by  gum! 
We  hadn't  no  grand  piano  up  there  at  old  Camp  Ten, 
Yet  we  never  lacked  fer  music  that  was  good  enough  fer  men. 
We  hadn't  no  Paderewski  er  long-haired  son-of-a-gun, 
But  jest  a  Swede  from  Oshkosh  an'  his  old  accordion. 

The  nights  when  things  was  chilly,  say  twenty  er  so  below, 

We  wud  gether  around  about  him  as  he  set  in  the  firelight 
glow. 

He  didn't  play  nothin'  fancy,  no  high  an'  mighty  air, 

But  he  made  us  laugh  with  "Bill  Bailey"  an'  cry  with  "The 
Maiden's  Prayer." 

And  then  we  wud  shut  our  eyelids  an'  miles  an'  miles  we'd 
roam 

While  that  instrument  sobbed  the  music,  the  song  of  "Home, 
Sweet  Home." 

It  made  us  all  feel  more  solemn  than  a  sermon  wud  have 
done, 

Though  't  was  only  a  Swede  from  Oshkosh  an'  his  old  ac 
cordion. 

Sometimes  we  wud  move  the  benches  an'  clear  the  shanty 
floor 

And  then  wud  come  stag  dancin'  fer  a  good  long  hour  er 
more. 

We  wore  no  dancin'  slippers,  we  wore  no  broadcloth  suits — \ 

The  shirts  that  we  wore  was  flannel,  an'  we  danced  in  cow 
hide  boots. 


THE  CAMP  67 

There  wasn't  no  orchestra  playin',  but  we  had  jest  twice  the 

fun, 
Fer  we  had  that  Swede  from  Oshkosh  an'  his  old  accordion. 

The  camp  up  there  on  the  river  is  dead  an'  lone  an'  chill; 
The  shanty  floor  creaks  no  longer,  the  place  an'  the  night 

are  still. 
The  boys  that  we  knew  are  scattered,  are  scattered  fur  an' 

wide — 

The  foreman  is  out  in  Seattle,  the  Swede,  they  say,  has  died. 
We  sleep  on  beds  of  linen,  we  eat  at  a  real  hotel — 
But  sometimes  I  git  a-thinkin'  an'  I  have  a  homesick  spell. 
An*  darned  if  I  ain't  a-longin'  to  be  back  there,  jest  fer  fun, 
An'  t'  hear  that  Swede  from  Oshkosh  an*  his  old  accordion. 


68  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  DESERTED  CAMP. 

In  the  forest  torn  and  shattered, 
Where  the  ax  has  come  and  gone, 
Where  the  years  flow  on  and  on, 
Silent  eve  and  silent  dawn, 

Where  the  fallen  chips  are  scattered, 

Stands  a  lonely  habitation — 
Buried  now  by  winter  snows 
When  the  raging  northwind  blows, 
Mounted  now  by  crimson  rose 

Feeling  summer's  each  pulsation; 

But  it  hears  no  whisper  human — 
Only  creaking  of  the  frost, 
Sob  of  pine  tree  tempest  tossed; 
For  its  threshold  old  is  crossed 

Nevermore  by  man  or  woman. 

Yet,  when  midnight  bells  are  ringing 
In  the  city  by  the  sea, 
Then  a  vision  comes  to  me 
And  I  hear  rise  merrily 

Sturdy  tones  of  manly  singing. 

Oldtime  forms  I  see  returning 
To  the  cabin  on  the  hill, 
To  the  region  white  and  still ; 
On  the  battered  windowsill 

Once  again  the  light  is  burning. 

There  is  Louie — he  who  perished 
When  the  forest  monarch  fell, 


THE  CAMP  69 

Connors — he  who  heard  his  knell 

In  the  woodland's  blazing  hell, 

There  is  Mary— whom  I  cherished. 

God,  I  thank  thee  for  the  dreaming 

Though  but  dreaming  it  may  be, 

I  give  thanks  for  memory, 

I  give  thanks  that  I  may  see 
These  that  were — that  now  are  seeming. 

Time  shall  claim  the  falling  rafter, 

And  the  elements'  rude  will 

Alter  river,  plain  and  hill; 

But  forever,  ever  still 
I  shall  hear  their  song  and  laughter. 

For  the  camp  beside  the  river 

Is  rebuilded  in  my  heart 

Where  these  midnight  visions  start; 

From  it  none  shall  e'er  depart, 
There  its  people  dwell  forever. 


70  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PHILOSOPHER. 

I  ain't  no  philosopher,  like  some  people  say  I  am. 

Philosophy  won't  fall  a  tree,  an'  it  never  broke  a  jam. 

I  ain't  figured  out  no  law  fer  to  run  the  universe ; 

I  take  things  jest  as  they  be,  be  they  better,  be  they  worse. 

Livin'  up  here  in  the  woods  with  the  sky  an'  sun  an'  trees 

Won't  make  any  fellah  wise,  make  him  any  Socrates. 

Be  they  better,  be  they  worse,  I  take  things  jest  as  they  be, 

An'  I  try  to  be  content — thet  there's  my  philosophy. 

If  a  tree  shud  crooked  grow,  grunts  '11  never  straighten  it. 
If  an  ax  ain't  hung  just  right,  words  '11  never  make  it  fit. 
If  it  snows  when  it  shud  rain,  if  it  rains  when  it  shud 

snow, 

Prayers  or  cussin's  never  changed  any  weather  thet  I  know. 
We  kin  only  hope  fer  snow  jest  to  keep  the  roads  alive, 
We  kin  only  hope  fer  rain  when  we're  ready  fer  the  drive. 
When  the  road  is  gittin'  bare  an*  old  mother  earth  you  see, 
Then  a  shovel  beats  a  prayer — thet  there's  my  philosophy. 

Other  folks  has  worldly  goods,  I'm  as  poor  as  Dago's  monk ; 
But  I  git  my  thirty  bones,  git  my  grub  an'  git  a  bunk. 
Other  folks  ride  grunt-machines ;  when  7  travel  7  must  walk ; 
But  you  can't  wish  money  in,  no  one  gives  you  coin  fer  talk. 
I  don't  cuss  because  I'm  broke,  I  don't  holler  at  the  rich. 
Some  is  rich  an'  some  is  poor;  what's  it  matter  which  is 

which? 

I'm  a  reg'lar  millionaire,  I'm  as  rich  as  any  be, 
If  I'm  only  satisfied — thet  there's  my  philosophy. 

Some  folks  long  fer  fame  an'  such,  long  to  mingle  with  the 
great, 


THE  GAMP  71 

Long  to  hold  some  fancy  job  while  the  public  pays  the  freight. 
I  don't  long  to  be  no  king,  long  to  be  no  senator. 
When  the  mighty  sit  to  dine,  I  ain't  hangin'  round  the  door. 
I  ain't  tryin'  much  to  teach,  I  ain't  tryin'  much  to  learn; 
I  jest  try  to  do  what's  right — then  I  never  give  a  dern. 
Be  they  better,  be  they  worse,  I  take  things  jest  as  they  be, 
An'  I  try  to  be  content — thet  there's  my  philosophy. 


72  IN  FOREST  LAND 


MARY'S  MISSION  FURNITURE. 

Y'  see,  't  was  this  way:    Mary  wrote 
Thet  she  had  learned  to  fairly  dote 
On  mission  furnicher.    She  said 
She'd  like  to  have  some  chairs,  a  bed, 
A  table  an'  a  sideboard,  too, 
An'  other  kinds  of  things  a  few. 
She  said  the  stuff  was  all  the  rage — 
Thet  Mrs.  Smith  an'  Mrs.  Gage 
Had  bought  a  lot  of  mission  stuff. 
A  woman  thinks  it  cause  enough 
To  buy  new  fixin's  such  as  those 
If  so  it  happens  thet  she  knows 
Some  other  woman  in  the  town 
Has  got  that  kind  of  stuff  aroun'. 

So  Mary  lit  her  evenin'  lamp 
An'  wrote  some  lines  to  me  in  camp 
A-tellin'  me  she  wanted  bad 
Some  furnicher  like  others  had. 
She  said  our  stuff  was  out  of  date, 
But  mission  stuff  was  somethin'  late. 
I  thought  about  the  walnut  bed 
Where  my  old  father  knelt  an'  said 
His  pray'rs.    I  felt  I'd  like  to  keep 
The  couch  where  Father  fell  asleep 
To  wake  no  more — where  Mother  dear 
Kept  lonely  watch,  year  after  year, 
Until  that  pray'r  of  his  come  true 
And  they  on  high  was  mated  new. 
There's  not  a  table  er  a  chair 
But  some  old  memory  will  share, 


THE  CAMP  73 

Some  tale  of  boyhood  will  relate — 
But  now  it's  old  an'  out  of  date. 

An'  so  I  wrote  the  company 

To  give  a  check  to  her,  so  she 

Could  buy  the  mission  furnicher. 

I'd  rather  be  a-pleasin'  her 

Than  keepin'  any  memory  green 

Of  days  thet  was  er  might  have  been. 

An'  then  next  week  I  got  a  note. 

"My  dearest,  darlin'  Dad,"  she  wrote, 

"I  guess  I've  changed  the  old  place  some! — 

Why,  you  won't  know  it  when  you  come! 

I've  fired  that  awful  walnut  bed; 

The  center  table's  in  the  shed 

Our  home's  so  nice  'twill  make  you  smile — 

I've  got  it  furnished  mission  style." 

The  last  log  on  the  bankin'  groun', 
We  rode  the  front  bobs  into  town, 
An'  I  was  all  excitement  then 
To  see  the  little  house  again, 
With  Mary  standin'  in  the  door 
As  stood  her  mother  years  before. 

'Twas  in  the  mornin"  we  drove  in. 
The  river  ice  was  black  an'  thin; 
The  sky  of  gray  had  turned  to  blue ; 
The  air  was  soft,  so  soft  we  knew 
That  spring  was  waitin'  fer  the  word 
To  wake  the  flow'r  an'  call  the  bird. 
But  nothin'  sweet  that  picture  had 
As  Mary  waitin'  fer  her  dad. 

First  thing  of  all  I  said  to  her, 

"Now,  where's  your  mission  furnicher?" 


74  IN  FOREST  LAND 

"O  Pa,"  she  said,  "it's  simply  grand!" 
An'  then  she  took  me  by  the  hand 
An*  showed  the  house  fixed  mission  style. 
An'  me?   Well,  I  could  only  smile, 
Although  I  felt  like  I  cud  cuss 
To  see  how  they  had  bunkoed  us. 

Fer  all  this  mission  furnicher 
Thet  some  smart  cuss  had  sold  to  her 
Was  jest  a  lot  of  hardwood  plank 
Jest  thrown  together  with  a  yank 
An'  called  a  table  or  a  chair. 
The  stuff  thet  she  had  gethered  there 
Was  just  the  same  stuff  that  the  men 
Was  used  to  havin'  at  Camp  Ten. 

A  bench  marked  seven  ninety-eight 
Thet  Mary  said  was  simply  great 
Was  like  the  one  thet  Jack  the  Red 
Broke  over  Jimmie  Murphy's  head. 
The  bed  thet  cost  some  thirty  plunks 
Was  just  the  picture  of  the  bunks 
They  give  us  fellahs  in  the  woods — 
An'  so  it  was  with  all  the  goods. 
Give  me  a  drawshave  an'  a  knife 
An'  handsaw  an'  I'll  bet  my  life, 
If  I  had  hardwood  plank  enough, 
That  I  cud  make  this  mission  stuff. 

But  I  said  nothin'.    Not  fer  me 
To  cause  a  tear  to  Mary.    She 
Kin  boss  the  outfit,  an'  her  dad 
Is  glad  as  long  as  Mary's  glad. 
I  don't  like  mission  furnicher 
But  if  it  fetches  joy  to  her, 
If  it  kin  make  her  lips  to  smile, 
I'd  fix  the  whole  world  mission  style. 


THE  CAMP  75 


MCDONALD,  THE  COOK. 

McDonald  don't  cook  from  no  recipey  book,  exceptin'  the 
book  in  his  head; 

But  McDonald  kin  shake  up  a  biscuit  er  cake  thet  is  fit  to  a 
king  to  be  fed. 

McDonald  don't  mope  over  cookin' -school  dope  an'  git  up  a 
dinner  too  late — 

McDonald  kin  throw  Injun  meal  into  dough  while  a  girl 
wud  be  findin'  a  plate. 

And  ev'rything  goes  by  names  ev'ryone  knows,  when  Mc 
Donald  a  dinner  prepares — 

For  beans  are  called  beans  an'  sardines  are  sardines  on  Mc 
Donald's  well-known  bill  of  fares. 

The  Frenchman's  "men-noo"  Mac  don't  parley  vous — he  kin 

cook  in  one  language,  not  four; 
If  McDonald  you  "chef"-ed  he  wud  hand  you  his  left,  fer 

Mac  is  a  cook,  an'  no  more. 
Yet  I  bet  thet  his  pies  wud  pry  open  the  eyes  of  many  a 

Johnny  Crapaud ; 
At  fried-cakes  an'  such  he  beats  Frenchman  er  Dutch,  an' 

his  bread  is  as  white  as  the  snow. 
As  I  mentioned  before,  he's  a  cook  an*  no  more,  but  a  cook 

from  his  wishbone  to  back ; 
And     the    citified     cuss    wudn't     satisfy    us,   since    we've 

tasted  the  cookin'  of  Mac. 

Kin  the  cook  in  the  town  git  the  beans  golden  brown  till 

they  crumble  an'  melt  in  your  mouth? 
Kin  he  boil  coffee  up  till  it  shines  in  the  cup  as  golden  an' 

rich  as  the  South  ? 


76  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Oh,  the  city  hotel  may  be  certainly  swell,  with  its  lamps  an' 

its  music  an'  flow'rs; 
But  fer  three  squares  a  day  I  will  take  no  "cafe" — jest  this 

dingy,  old  cook-house  of  ours. 
As  I  mentioned  before,  Mac's  a  cook  an'  no  more,  but  a 

cook  from  his  wishbone  to  back ; 
An'  the  citified  cuss  wudn't  satisfy  us,  since  we've  tasted 

the  cookin'  of  Mac. 


THE  CAMP  77 


THE  CALLIN'  OF  THE  PINE. 

The  sailor  on  the  shore  hears  the  rollin'  ocean  roar,  an'  it 

beckons  an'  it  beckons  to  the  deep ; 
He  kin  hear  the  tackle  shake  when  he  lays  at  night  awake, 

he  kin  feel  the  deck  a-rollin'  in  his  sleep. 
He  kin  hear  the  flappin'  sail,  he  kin  see  above  the  gale  the 

petrel  risin'  skyward  brave  an'  free ; 
An'  there  ain't  no  sailor  man  thet  is  happy  on  the  Ian'  when 

he  listens  to  the  callin'  of  the  sea. 

When  he  listens  to  the  callin'  of  the  sea, 
When  he  hears  the  breakers  roarin'  on  the  lee — 
Then  his  heart  is  far  away  where  the  billows  leap  an'  play, 
When  he  listens  to  the  callin'  of  the  sea. 

As  the  sailor  hears  the  sea,  so  I  hear  a-callin'  me  a  voice  thet 

ever  beckons  to  the  wood; 
I  kin  hear  the  pine  tree  sigh  to  the  wind  a-passin'  by,  I  ketch 

a  breath  of  air  thet's  sweet  an'  good. 
Yes,  the  sailor's  far  away  where  the  billows  leap  an'  play, 

when  he  listens  to  the  music  of  the  brine ; 
But  my  soul  is  with  the  trees  an'  the  river  an'  the  breeze, 

when  I  listen  to  the  callin'  of  the  pine. 

When  I  listen  to  the  callin'  of  the  pine, 
When  I  drink  the  brimmin'  cup  of  forest  wine — 
Then  the  path  of  life  is  sweet  to  my  travel- weary  feet, 
When  I  listen  to  the  callin'  of  the  pine. 

But  I  like  the  pine  tree  best  when  the  river  is  at  rest  an'  the 

winter  holds  the  world  in  its  embrace, 
When  the  snow  gleams  fur  an'  white,  when  the  moon  is  cold 

an'  bright,  when  the  pine  tree  wears  its  diamonds  an'  its 

lace. 


78  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Though  the  winter  winds  are  keen,  still  its  boughs  are  ever 
green,  like  the  love  of  her  who  has  this  heart  of  mine ; 

An'  I  know  thet  she  is  true  as  the  verdure  ever  new,  when  I 
listen  to  the  callin'  of  the  pine. 

When  I  listen  to  the  callin'  of  the  pine, 
Then  I  pledge  her  in  my  cup  of  forest  wine — 
An*  the  stars  that  shine  above  all  are  singin'  of  my  love, 
When  I  listen  to  the  callin'  of  the  pine. 


THE  CAMP  79 


THE  CONFUSION  OF  TONGUES. 

There's  a  legend  they  tell  ('tis  they  tell  it,  my  boy)  concern 
ing  a  certain  great  tree 

That  grows  down  at  Milltown  beside  the  St.  Croix,  where 
it  gets  its  first  taste  of  the  sea ; 

And  this  legend,  or  story,  concerning  the  tree  has  a  moral, 
they  say,  in  it  thrown, 

But  I'll  tell  it  to  you  as  they  told  it  to  me — you  can  figure 
the  moral  alone. 

On  the  bank  of  the  stream  grew  this  spruce  tree  so  tall,  but 
this  spruce  tree  was  crooked  and  slim ; 

On  its  side  grew  a  bump,  or  a  wart,  or  a  ball,  and  a  bird's  nest 
hung  out  on  a  limb. 

There  were  branches  on  one  side  as  thick  as  the  fur  that  in 
habits  a  pussy  cat's  tail; 

On  the  other,  such  branches  at  all  as  there  were  were  feeble 
and  fragile  and  frail. 

To  the  east  just  a  trifle  the  tree  was  inclined,  it  wasn't  ex 
actly  in  plumb ; 

It  didn't  lean  out  very  far,  do  you  mind,  and  then,  yet  again, 
it  leaned  some. 

But  this  spruce  tree  was  doomed  to  an  untimely  end  because 
of  its  lumberly  worth — 

The  foreman  intended  some  fellers  to  send  to  bring  the  great 
monarch  to  earth. 

So  he  called  a  picked  crew  from  the  forest  near  by  to  chop, 
saw  and  skid  up  the  spruce, 

For  he  swore  that  the  spruce  tree  gigantic  should  die — and 
these  were  the  men  he  turned  loose: 

There  was  Sandy  McGee,  just  from  Bonnie  Dundee,  a  canny 
young  bit  of  a  lod; 


80  IN  FOREST  LAND 

There  was  Michael  OToole — he  was  far  from  a  fool—a  son 

of  a  son  of  the  sod; 
There  was  Alphonse  Le  Gaul,  just  from  far  Montreal,  as 

smooth  as  the  bark  on  the  beech ; 
And  an  Englishman  stout  who  had  lately  come  out  quite 

willing  to  learn — or  to  teach ; 
And  lastly  was  Jake,  who  was  after  a  stake  and  who  said, 

"Um-ha-ha!     Vot's  der  use?" 
These  five  were  the  crew  (for  a  job  fit  for  two)  turned  loose 

on  that  hapless  old  spruce. 

But  the  spruce  tree,  they  tell  me,  looked  quite  unafraid  when 

the  crew  hove  in  sight  at  the  morn ; 
In  the  zephyr  that  passed  it  it  playfully  swayed,  as  it  had 

since  the  day  it  was  born. 
"  'Tis  a  wee  bit  a-crookit,"  quoth  Sandy  McGee,  as  he  pulled 

off  his  coat  with  a  yank, 
"I'm  thinken'  'twere  weel,  Meester  Wobbly  Tree,  to  lay  y' 

up  here  on  tha  bank." 
"Perhaps  so  it  were,"  Michael  hastened  to  state,  "but  look 

at  the  bump  on  the  bark ; 
You  must  fall  toward  the  bump  side,  for  there  lays  the  weight 

— it's  so  aisy,  me  byes,  it's  a  lark." 
It  then  was  the  turn  of  the  Frenchman  Le  Gaul,  who  was 

green  at  the  work,  so  they  say; 
He  thought  that  the  bird's  nest  would  help  it  to  fall  and 

suggested  they  fell  it  that  way. 
The  Englishman  laughed  at  traditional  foe  and  showed  how 

the  branches  were  spread; 
"Where  the  top  is  the  thickest,"  he  said,  "it  must  go — or 

the  thing  will  come  down  on  your  head." 
But  Jake  took  a  squint  and  he  said,  "It  is  lean  to  the  east 

just  a  leetle,  I  foun'; 
So,  if  you  vill  look,  it  is  plain  to  be  seen  the  which  way  to 

chop  up  him  down," 


THE  CAMI'  81 

In  five  different  ways  would  five  different  men  have  felled 

that  unfortunate  tree. 
They  argued  till  sundown — alas!  even  then  these  fellers  still 

could  not  agree. 

For  said  Sandy  McGee,  just  from  Bonnie  Dundee,  "It's  best 

by  the  bank  here  to  lie." 
Then  said  Michael  O'Toole,  "You're  a  bare-legged  fool  and 

you're  grane  in  the  bargain,  sez  I." 
Then  Alphonse  Le  Gaul  danced  into  the  ball  and  swore  by 

the  nest  on  the  limb ; 
And  then  Mr.  Miles,  from  His  Majesty's  isles,  showed  again 

how  the  tree  looked  to  him. 
And  lastly  came  Jake,  gave  his  shoulders  a  shake  and  said 

in  a  voice  that  was  shrill: 
"You  vas  grazy  vons  all — eef  a  tree  vas  to  fall,  is  he  goin' 

to  fall  up  a  hill?" 

As  I  say,  there's  a  moral  connected  with  this,  though  I  never 

have  quite  made  it  out; 
I  will  tell  you  the  story,  though,  just  as   it  is — you  may  find 

what  the  moral's  about. 
For  Sandy  and  Michael  at  last  came  to  blows,  John  Bull  and 

the  Frenchman  joined  in 
And  Jake's  doubled  fist  met  with  somebody's  nose  and  Jake 

got  a  thump  on  the  chin. 
'Twas  free  for  all,  go  it  all,  Donnybrook  fair,  and  ev'ry  man 

give  it  and  take; 
In  the  morning  some  plaid  and  a  bit  of  red  hair  the  foreman 

picked  up  with  a  rake. 
For  each  one  was  licked  and  each  licked  ev'ry  one — for  they 

fought  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
Till  all  that  was  left  at  the  rise  of  the  sun  was  the  hair  and  bit 

plaidie  so  wee. 
There's  a  moral,  they  say,  in  this  wonderful  tale,  though  for 

morals  I  haven't  much  use; 


82  IN  FOREST  LAND 

But  I  know,  in  that  quaint  old  Canadian  vale,  still  grows 

that  slim,  crooked  old  spruce. 
But,  alas,  Mr.  Miles  and  brave  Michael  OToole  have  passed 

from  the  knowledge  of  men ; 
And  Le  Gaul  and  poor  Jake,  the  Jewish  man,  you'll  on  earth 

never  meet  with  again ; 
No,  never  again  will  the  bagpiping  biz  be  played  by  poor  Sandy 

'  McGee. 
And  the  moral's  a  good  one,  I'm  sure  that  it  is-whatever 

the  moral  may  be, 


THE  CAMP  83 


THE  SONGS  THE  WOODSMEN  SING. 

Above  the  quick,  explosive  notes  of  axes  in  the  tree-heart 

ringing, 
Above  the  crash  of  falling  pine,  there  comes  the  sound  of  manly 

singing. 
The  roof  is  God's  eternal  sky.    The  graceful,  swaying  forest 

giant 

Is  not  more  mighty  than  the  tone,  more  proud,  more  sturdy, 
more  defiant: 

"I  love  a  girl  in  Saginaw; 

She  lives  with  her  mother. 
I  defy  all  Michigan 
To  find  such  another." 

For  men  must  whistle  while  they  work,  or  irksome  is  the  lot 

of  labor, 
For  men  must  mingle  voice  with  voice  if  each  would  help  and 

cheer  his  neighbor; 
And,  when  men  sing,  then  men  must  sing  the  praises  of  a 

gentle  woman — 

For  she   is  angel,  at  the  least,  and  man,  at  most,  is  only 
human: 

"She's  tall  and  slim;  her  hair  is  red; 

Her  face  is  plump  and  pretty. 
She's  my  daisy  Sunday  best-day  girl, 
And  her  front  name  stands  for  Kitty." 

Each  holds  a  sweetheart  somewhere  dear,  each  has  his  meed 

of  song  to  give  her — 
She  in  a  fatherland  may  dwell,  she  may  have  crossed  the 

silent  river. 
Each  man  has  known  a  clasp  of  hands,  each  known  a  woman's 

sweet  caresses; 


84  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Each  man,  though  rough  and  rude  without,  some  tender 
memory   possesses: 

"I  took  her  to  a  dance  one  night, 

A  mossback  gave  the  bidding ; 
Silver  Jack  bossed  the  shebang, 
And  Big  Dan  played  the  fiddle." 

Rude  is  the  song— for  ever  bards  feel  more  than  they  ca\ 

give  expression, 
But  never  song  is  half  so  sweet  as  when  a  lover  makes  con> 

fession. 
Rude  are  the  joys  that  come  to  mind,  as  rude  and  reckless 

as  the  rhythm, 

But  all  are  sweet  and  sanctified  by  this  one  joy— that  she  was 
with  him: 

"We  danced  and  drank  the  livelong  night 

With  fights  between  the  dancing, 
Till  Silver  Jack  cleaned  out  the  ranch 
And  sent  the  mossbacks  prancing." 

And  when  the  tree  fells  some  brave  heart,  and  when  the 

river  claims  a  braver, 
The  woodsmen's  chant  is  softened  low;  with  tears  the  faulty 

accents  waver. 
They  lay  him  in  a  shallow  grave,  the  forest  o'er  it  shadows 

flinging, 
And  woods  and  hills  and  brook  and  stars  are  ever,  ever  gently 

singing: 

"I  love  a  girl  in  Saginaw; 

She  lives  with  her  mother, 
I  defy  all  Michigan 

To  find  such  another." 


THE  CAMP  85 


THE  WAY  HOME. 

We  ain't  very  strong  on  right  an*  on  wrong,  us  fellahs  at 

lumber  Camp  Ten; 
If  a  man  wants  to  cuss  er  to  kick  up  a  fuss,  it  don't  bother 

the  rest  o'  the  men. 

If  a  man's  on  the  square  an'  inclined  to  be  fair,  we  like  him 

the  better  fer  that ; 
But  we  don't  pick  a  quar'l  with  the  man  who  will  snarl,  any 

more'n  we  wud  with  a  cat. 

If  he  looks  fer  a  row,  we  manage  as  how  he  don't  have  to 

wander  about; 
An'  a  mighty  good  lick,  er  a  duck  in  the  crick,  will  gen'ally 

straighten  him  out. 

You  kin  easy  surmise  we  was  took  by  su'prise  when  Scotty, 

the  boss  of  the  barn, 
Got  serious  kind  an'  said,  to  his  mind,  he  cared  not  a  golly 

gosh  darn 

If  a  man  went  to  kirk,  er  in  camp  had  to  work  where  he 

never  heard  singing  er  text — 
He  cud  be  jest  as  good  as  any  cuss  could,  in  one  place  as 

well  as  the  next. 

This  theology  biz,  or  whatever  it  is,  was  a  new  kind  of  talk 

around  there. 
We  didn't  think  much  on  religion  an'  such;  we  was  rusty  on 

preachin'  an'  prayer. 

There  wasn't  a  one,  not  a  son-of-a-gun,  but  wanted  to  Heaven 
to  get; 


86  IN  FOREST  LAND 

But  we  had  the  idee  that,  if  Heaven  we'd  see,  we  must  go  by 
the  way  of  Marque tte. 

When  we're  up  in  Camp  Ten  it  is  different  then,  away  from 

the  church  an'  the  chime; 
We  have  our  own  laws  an'  fight  our  own  cause  an'  eat  venison 

any  old  time. 

So  when  Scotty,  the  boss  of  the  heifer  an*  hoss,  the  other 

lads  started  to  rake, 
They  gave  a  ho-ho  an'  told  him  to  go  an'  take  a  big  jump  in 

the  lake. 

Now,  isn't  it  strange,  how  quickly  we  change  from  joy  into 

sorrow  an'  back, 
How  a  man  seems  to  know  he'll  be  called  soon  to  go  acrost 

the  great  river  so  black? 

In  an  hour,  by  the  watch,  that  bundle  of  Scotch  in  a  bunk 

we  saw  tumble  an'  toss  ; 
Fer  a  kick  on  the  head  by  that  blamed  heifer  red  had  ended  it 

all  fer  the  boss. 

No  preacher  was  there  with  a  comfortin'  prayer  to  make  easy 

the  comin'  of  death. 
There  was  no  one  to  say  a  text  er  to  pray  fer  the  poor  devil 

pantin'  fer  breath. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes,  but  no  pain  or  su' prise  in  the  face 

of  the  man  we  could  see  ; 
'Twas  the  face  of  a  child,  thet  looked  upward  an'  smiled,  an' 

said,  "Fellahs,  listen  to  me: 

"If  a  man  goes  to  kirk,  er  in  camp  has  to  work  where  he  never 
hears  singin'  er  text, 


THE  CAMP  87 

Remember  he  can  be  a  God-lovin'  man  in  one  place  as  well 
as  the  next. 

"It's  all  over,  I  know,  but  I  ain't  scared  to  go,  though  my 

heart  at  the  partin'  is  sair; 
I  kin  see  the  white  gate  where  my  wee  babbies  wait — an'  I 

know  thet  I'm  goin'  straight  there." 


88  IN  FOREST  LAND 


A  SON  OF  SICILY. 

I  leava  dat  Italia 

An'  coma  to  da  land, 
Da  greata,  free  America, 

To  run  banana  stand. 
An'  when  I  leava  Sicily 

Da  sunna  he  was  shine, 
Da  leaf  was  on  da  feega  tree 

An'  grapa  on  da  vine ; 
Da  baby  chasa  butterfly, 

Da  woman  sing  a  song; 
An'  life  it  passa  sweeta  by, 

Like  reever  run  along. 

But,  in  Chicago  city,  sun 

He  shina  not  at  all; 
An'  in  Chicago  ever 'one 

He  "dago,  dago"  call. 
No  hilla  stand,  no  feega  grow, 

No  bird  sing  in  a  trees; 
Da  weenter  coma  an'  da  snow — 

Italian  he  freeze. 
I  dreama  den  of  Sicily, 

Da  woman  by  da  door; 
Da  leetle  baby  so  I  see 

A  creepa  on  da  floor. 

One  day  padroni  come  aroun  ; 

He  say,  "You  coma  me, 
To  sunny  Sout*  I  send  you  down 

Where  growa  beeg,  beeg  tree. 


"The    sunny    South" 


THE  CAMP  89 

You  worka  on  a  railaroad, 

You  shovel  upa  sand, 
You  leefta  tie,  you  carry  load — 

I  pay  you  mucha  grand." 
"I  cara  nota  abouta  pay," 

I  say,  an'  laff  an'  cry, 
"I  wanta  goa  far  away, 

I  wanta  see  a  sky." 

I  dream  of  Sicily  some  more 

But  oh!  I  feel  so  diff — 
I  sleepa  night-time  out-a-door, 

Again,  again  I  lif. 
The  sun  he  shina  in  da  sky 

Like  sun  in  Sicily; 
I  see  da  purty  butterfly, 

Da  birda  in  da  tree. 
Da  moona  an'  da  stars  so  shine, 

So  lovely  an'  so  bright, 
I  see  'em  higha  toppa  pine, 

An'  cross  masel'  at  night. 

For  God  He  liva  in  da  sky, 

He  liva  in  da  tree, 
An'  in  da  reever  runna  by — 

Like  dat  in  Sicily. 
For  God  He  liva  out-a-door, 

Not  in  a  city  beeg; 
For  God  He  maka  sea  an'  shore, 

Da  grapa  an'  da  feeg. 
I  go  not  to  Chicago  back, 

I  sleepa  on  da  sod ; 
I  stay  not  in  a  city  black, 

But  out-a  door  wit'  God. 


90  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  STABLE  BOY. 

I  don't  know  the  why  er  the  reason 

(Them  things  aren't  always  quite  clear), 
But  never  comes  glad  Christinas  season, 

It  never  gits  this  time  o'  year, 
But  I'm  thinkin',  both  sleepin'  an'  wakin', 

Of  a  queer  little  pardner  of  mine, 
Of  the  winter  thet  we  was  a-makin* 

A  hole  in  the  Ogemaw  pine. 

He  was  tiny  an'  tough  an'  a  terror, 

He  cud  cuss,  he  cud  smoke,  he  cud  chew; 
But  kid  never  lived  thet  was  squarer, 

An'  kid  never  lived  was  as  true. 
He  walked  all  the  way  up  the  river, 

With  never  a  sigh  er  a  sob 
(Though  the  days  wud  make  polar  bears  shiver), 

An'  struck  the  head  push  fer  a  job. 

He  didn't  look  hardly  quite  able 

To  monkey  with  axes  or  tools, 
So  the  boss  give  him  work  in  the  stable 

At  scrapin'  the  hides  o'  the  mules. 
An'  he  still  might  be  curryin'  Nero 

An'  Caesar  up  there  in  the  wood 
If  God  hadn't  discovered  a  hero 

An'  give  him  a  chance  to  make  good. 

Y'  see,  we  had  ttiat  year  a  baby 

In  camp  with  the  rest  of  the  crew 
An'  we  worshiped  the  youngster — well,  maybe 

you've  loved  some  such  kid  as  that,  too, 


THE  CAMP 

Tain't  often  you  hear  a  kid  squealin' 

In  any  such  country  as  that, 
And  darned  if  the  men  wasn't  kneelin' 

Like  one  to  the  sealer's  young  brat. 

But  of  all  of  the  folks  thet  cud  handle 

That  kid  an'  not  scare  it  to  fits 
Not  one  cud  hold  even  a  candle 

To  the  lad  o'  the  bridles  an'  bits. 
And  now,  do  you  know,  I  suspicion 

Thet  the  stable  boy,  freckled  an'  slim, 
While  he  petted  that  baby,  was  wishin' 

Fer  someone  to  do  it  to  him. 

One  day  we  was  workin'  on  seven, 

A  clump  thet  stood  close  to  the  camp, 
An'  the  babe  was  in  kind  of  a  heaven, 

A-playin'  around  us,  the  scamp. 
Fer  his  mother  to  see  us  had  brought  him 

(A  treat  she  had  promised  the  tad) 
An*  the  foreman  with  log  rule  had  taught  him 

T'  "scale  just  as  good  as  his  dad." 

We  never  knew  jest  how  it  started, 

But  it  stabbed  ev'ry  man  to  the  soul — 
Fer  somehow  the  bindin'  chain  parted 

An'  the  top  logs  all  started  to  roll. 
We  heard  the  great  log-chain  unlinkin', 

We  heard  the  loud  roar  of  the  load ; 
Then  none  of  the  baby  was  thinkin', 

Fer  ev'ry  man  jumped  fer  the  road. 

No,  not  all.    One  alone  stayed  an'  seized  him, 

The  baby  who  laughed  at  the  noise, 
An'  the  arms  thet  reached  outward  an'  squeezed  him, 

Thet  covered  his  form,  was  the  boy's. 


92  IN  FOREST  LAND 

We  worked  then  with  madmen's  endeavor, 
We  lifted  the  logs  from  the  skids  ; 

But  the  chore  boy  was  silent  forever — 
He  had  given  his  life  fer  the  kid's. 

His  name?    I  can't  seem  now  to  mind  it, 

Though  I  dream  an'  I  think  an'  I  try ; 
But  I  know  that  all  entered  you'll  find  it 

In  the  books  of  the  angels  on  high. 
To  bibles  the  lad  was  a  stranger, 

No  faith  ever  filled  him  with  joy, 
But  the  Christ  that  was  born  in  a  manger 

I  know  will  take  care  of  the  boy. 


THE  CAMP  93 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  SCRAP. 

St.  Patrick  wuz  a  paceful  saint  who  druv  the  snakes  from 

Oireland. 
He  made  the  goblins  in  the  bogs  betake  themselves  to  higher 

land. 

Now,  who  but  Timmy  Corrigan,  a  far  from  ornamintal  mon, 
Would  e'er  disgrace  the  mimory  of  sich  a  paceful  gintlemon? 

Now,  who  but  Timmy — do  ye  hear? — an'  min  loike  Mickey 
Flaherty 

Would  e'er  disthurb  St.  Patrick's  Day  wid  sich  unfit  hilar 
ity? 

But  let  me  whisper  just  a  word,  an'  this  here  is  the  word 
it  is: 

The  Oirish  temper's  not  so  quick  as  yez  hev  often  heard  it  is. 

A  bit  of  tow  may  start  a  blaze  will  burn  up  half  the  bailiwick; 
But  not  till  somewan  wid  a  flint  has  hit  a  bit  of  nail  a  lick. 
Two  Oirishmen  may  scrap  until  a  crowbar  big  has  parted  'em, 
But,  tin  to  wan,  whin  Oirish  fight,  some  other  nation  started 
'em. 

It  was  thot  way  at  Ould  Camp  Tin  whin  Pat   an'    Mickey 

Flaherty, 

Tim  Corrigan,  his  brother  Bill  an'  Dan  an*  Harry  Garrity 
Got  in  an  awful  jamboree.    They  tore  the  bunks  an'  binches 

loose; 
The  ah*  was  full  o'  flyin'  things,  wid  axes,  saws  an'  wrinches 

loose. 

An'  whin,  for  want  of  breath  an'  bricks,  the  scrappers  had  to 

pause  a  bit, 
The  foremen  layped  among  thim  all  an'  thried  to  learn  the 

cause  of  it. 


94  IN  FOREST  LAND 

It  seems  thot  Ole  Payterson,  a  harmless  kind  o'  lady's  mon 
Had  said  St.   Patrick,   blissed  saint,   wuz  just  a  common 
Swadish  mon. 

"Now,"  sez  the  foreman,  "byes,  me  byes,  there  is  a  double 

moral  here 
Which  yez  will  learn  b'  heart  I  hope,  ye  laddybucks  who 

quarrel  here: 
Now,  first:     Plaze  notice,  wan  an'  all,  thfot  whin  the  Oirish 

mix  up  things 
Some  other  nationality  it  is  at  first  thot  kicks  up  things. 

"An'  also  notice,  if  ye  plaze,  some  yap  that  couldn't  lick  a 

stamp 
Is  jist  the  bye  that  riles  ye  up  an'  starts  yez  out  to  lick  a 

camp; 

And,  lasht  of  all,  ye  will  obsarve,  he's  never  in  the  dirt  at  all — 
For  he  who's  first  to  start  a  row  is  seldom  ever  hurt  at  all." 


THE  CAMP  95 


POET  AND  PEASANT. 

"How  wonderful!"  the  Poet  cried, 

"The  pine  mounts  skyward  day  by  day." 

"Darned  if  I  see,"  the  Chore-Boy  said, 
"How  it  could  grow  the  other  way." 

"How  beauteous!"  the  Poet  cried, 
"It  spreads  its  branches  to  the  air." 

But  the  prosaic  Cliore-Boy  asked, 

"What's  to  prevent  it,  'way  up  there?" 

"How  sad  its  song,"  the  Poet  said. 

"It  moans  like  some  poor  soul  has  sinned. 
"That  ain't  no  song,"  the  Chore-Boy  said, 

"That  noise  you  hear  up  there  is  wind." 

"How  wonderful!"  the  Poet  cried, 

"Long  years  it's  stood  in  regal  pomp." 

The  Chore-Boy  smiling  said,  "I  guess 
That  you  have  never  pulled  a  stump." 

"A  cradle  fit  for  infant  king," 
The  poet  cried,  "its  branches  are." 

"But  if  the  kid,"  the  Chore-Boy  said, 
"Should  fall  'twould  get  an  awful  jar." 

"See  in  its  bark  deep-furrowed  care," 
The  Poet  cried  in  soulful  terms. 

"That  isn't  care,"  the  Chore-Boy  said, 
"That  isn't  care — I  guess  it's  worms." 

"How  through  the  winter,"  said  the  bard, 
"It  keeps  its  green  garb  beauteous." 


96  IN  FOREST  LAND 

"It  keeps  its  green,"  the  Chore-Boy  said, 
"Of  course — a  pine  tree  always  does." 

"For  centuries,"  the  Poet  cried, 

"It  has  withstood  the  storm  that  racks.1 

"But  wait  till  some  one  comes  along," 
The  Chore-Boy  said,  "who  has  an  ax." 


THE  CAMP  97 


JEAN  COMES  TO  MASS. 

'Tis  Christmas  Eve ;  but  from  the  winter  sky 
No  stars  shine  out.     The  pine  tops  sob  and  sigh. 
About  the  camp  the  night  wind  sadly  moans 
And,  at  its  touch,  the  shanty  loudly  groans 
Like  some  old  chopper  with  rheumatic  bones 
Watching  the  sleepless  hours  go  crawling  by. 

The  curling  incense,  from  two  score  of  bowls 
Jammed  with  tobacco,  slowly  upward  rolls. 
Fast  fly  about  the  merry  woodsmen's  jokes 
The  while  they  talk  of  home  and  old  home  folks; 
But  one  among  them  still  in  silence  smokes 
And  dreams  a  dream  of  tiny  angel  souls. 

While  'round  the  house  the  chilling  night  wind  grieves, 
He  sits  and  dreams  of  other  Christmas  Eves 
And  sees  strange  shadows  on  the  shanty  wall. 
He  hears  the  romping  noise  and  merry  call 
Of  two  small  babes,  now  sleeping  'neath  a  pall 
Of  drifting  snow  and  lifeless  autumn  leaves. 

But  joy  is  cruel,  and  wit  too  merciless 

Respects  but  ill  a  heart's  unhappiness; 
And  soon  to  him  the  merry  sallies  pass: 
"Dream  you,  Canuck,  of  some  Toronto  lass?" 
Or,  "Think  you,  brother,  you  have  come  to  mass? 

Tell  us  the  wicked  sins  you  would  confess." 

"See,  Jean  has  come  to  mass,"  the  joke  goes  'round 
"It  is  not  Christmas  Eve  good  Jean  has  found. 

'Tis  not  a  time  to  smile,  'tis  time  to  sigh ; 

'Tis  not  a  lime  to  laugh,  'tis  time  to  cry; 


J  IN  FOREST  LAND 

'Tis  not  a  time  to  live,  'tis  time  to  die; 
For,  see,  to  mass  our  good  friend  Jean  is  bound." 

Hurt  by  their  jests,  pained  by  their  careless  wit, 

Resolved  no  more  in  silence  to  submit, 

Jean  leaves  the  pleasant  warmth  and  fireside  bright 
And  steps  without,  where  now  the  winter  night 
Gives  to  the  world  a  newer  garb  of  white, 

While  whirling  flakes  in  hurry  earthward  flit. 

'Tis  Christmas  Eve;  and  still,  as  in  his  dream, 
The  voices  of  his  slumbering  babies  seem 
To  call  him  upward  from  a  world  so  chill, 
The  winds  that  freeze,  the  colder  words  that  kill, 
To  some  far  world  where  peace,  peace  and  good-will 
From  the  transfigured  skies  forever  beam. 

Jean  wanders  on ;  the  hours  of  midnight  pass ; 

The  great  pines  bend  before  the  wind  like  grass. 
But,  in  the  morning  light,  that  winter  wind, 
At  sunlight's  touch,  becomes  to  men  more  kind, 
And  on  a  snow-clad  mound  a  form  they  find — 

For  Jean  to  God's  Great  Church  has  come  to  mass. 


THE  DRIVE 


THE  WILL  OF  THE  MIGHTY. 

As  moved  the  phalanx  of  the  Greek 

And  left  behind  no  thing  alive, 
By  new-formed  bayou,  swollen  creek, 

Moves  now  the  phalanx  of  the  drive. 
The  Grecians  linked  their  thousand  spears 

And  made  their  long,  unbroken  line ; 
Thus  on  the  flowing  stream  appears 

The  mighty  army  of  the  pine. 

It  leaves  behind  no  trail  of  death, 

No  bloodied  battleflag  is  seen; 
The  balsam  scent  is  on  its  breath, 

Its  banner  is  the  forest  green. 
It  comes  not  as  the  men  of  Greece, 

When  weak  must  fall  and  strong  must  flee ; 
Its  message  is  a  song  of  peace, 

Its  mission  is  but  industry. 

As  moved  the  phalanx  of  the  past, 

As  slow,  as  irresistible, 
This  forest  army,  great  and  vast, 

Moves  slowly  on  to  waiting  mill. 
And  if,  perchance,  its  millions  halt 

On  sandy  shoal  or  rocky  shelf, 
Nor  stream  nor  earth  is  more  at  fault — 

The  error  lies  within  itself. 

When  leaders  falter  by  the  way 
Or  pause  to  rest  on  mossy  banks 
99 


100  IN  FOREST  LAND 

The  stubborn  obstacles  are  they 

That  spread  confusion  through  the  ranks. 

When  timid  timber  hesitates 

To  make  the  plunge  o'er  foaming  dam 

Or,  lured  by  placid  water,  waits — 
Then  comes  the  chaos  of  the  jam. 

The  moving  phalanx  of  the  pine 

Is  like  the  people's  tardy  will, 
As  slow  as  shield-encumbered  line, 

As  slow  and  irresistible. 
And,  if  it  pause  by  rock  or  shoal, 

On  shifting  sand  or  rolling  stone, 
Yea,  if  it  fail  to  reach  its  goal, 

The  fault  is  all  the  people's  own. 


THE  DRIVE  -  101 

WHEN  THE  DRIVE  COMES  DOWN. 

Things  is  quiet  in  the  town — 

Boys  is  up  the  stream ; 
No  one  ever  blows  aroun', 

Life  is  like  a  dream. 
Must  be  much  as  twenty  days 

Since  I've  seen  a  fight; 
People  walk  in  peaceful  ways, 

Go  to  bed  at  night. 
Laws  ain't  broke — or  even  bent — 

In  the  good  old  town; 
But  it  will  be  different 

When  the  drive  comes  down. 

When  the  drive  comes  down 
Things'll  sizzle  brown ; 
Business  will  be  boomin'  then — 
When  the  drive  comes  down. 

Patsy  Ward,  from  off  the  Clam, 

He  will  head  the  crew 
'Long  with  Grah'm,  who  broke  the  jam 

At  Island  Number  Two. 
All  the  boys  from  Hotighton  Lake 

Pat  will  have  in  tow, 
With  their  winter's  thirst  to  slake 

An'  their  coin  to  blow. 
West'rn  Avenue  will  boom 

In  the  good  old  town ; 
Won't  be  room  for  grief  an'  gloom 

When  the  drive  comes  down. 

When  the  drive  comes  down 
Things'll  sizzle  brown 
An'  the  dough  will  circulate — 
When  the  drive  comes  down. 


102  IN,FOPE$T>  LAND 


THE  OLD  OHIO  LEVEE. 

This  world  of  laughter,  love  and  song 

Has  promenades  in  plenty 
On  which,  at  eve,  there  stroll  along 

The  man  and  maid  of  twenty. 
Great  Paris  has  its  boulevards, 

And  fair  the  streets  of  Brussels, 
And  some  to  Broadway  send  regards, 

Where  silken  garment  rustles. 
But,  when  a-weary  is  my  soul 

And  when  my  heart  is  heavy, 
I  light  my  black  cigar  and  stroll 

The  old  Ohio  levee. 

Below  me  flows  the  yellow  stream 

Fair  Illinois  entwining, 
And  far  across,  as  in  a  dream, 

Kentucky's  shore  is  shining. 
A  banjo  twangs  upon  the  night, 

The  world  is  filled  with  singing, 
And,  swimming  in  its  silver  light, 

The  gentle  moon  is  swinging. 
The  girls  and  loves  of  other  days 

Attend  me  in  a  bevy — 
I  see  them  in  the  filmy  haze 

On  old  Ohio  levee. 

My  feet  shall  wander  other  streets 
Beyond  the  mighty  ocean, 

But  distant  river  but  repeats 
The  loved  Ohio's  motion. 


THE  DRIVE  103 


My  lips  that  warble  other  tunes 

And  flatter  other  daughters 
Shall  but  recall  remembered  Junes 

Beside  Ohio's  waters. 
And,  when  of  change  I  tire  and  when 

My  vagrant  heart  is  heavy, 
My  feet  shall  long  to  stroll  again 

The  old  Ohio  levee. 


104  IN  FOREST  LAND 

THE  DRIVE. 

You  think  of  death  as  a  thing  that  stalks 

Through  a  famine-stricken  land ; 
You  think  of  death  as  a  thing  that  walks 

With  a  sword  held  in  its  hand. 
I  see  no  flag  and  I  hear  no  drums 

And  no  pestilence  I  fear, 
But  I  know  when  the  drive  down  the  river  comes 

It  is  death  that  sacks  the  rear. 

'Tis  the  hand  of  death  that  the  stream  would  dam 

With  a  wall  of  the  mighty  pine, 
'Tis  the  hand  of  death  that  the  logs  would  jam 

Where  the  waters  leap  and  shine. 
It  is  there  men  fight  the  fight  with  death, 

And  their  hearts  are  unafraid; 
It  is  there  men  fight  for  life  and  breath, 

It  is  there  are  heroes  made. 

You  sing  the  praise  of  a  Winkelreid 

Who  gathered  the  foemen's  spears, 
But  keep  the  name  of  this  other  sweet, 

Like  his,  in  the  after  years. 
Peavey  or  sword  or  pike  or  gun — 

To  the  brave  they  are  all  the  same ; 
So  keep  a  place  for  the  river's  son 

In  your  cherished  hall  of  fame. 

So  keep  a  place  for  the  man  who  dies 

When  the  mighty  jam  gives  way, 
So  keep  a  place  for  the  man  who  tries 

The  hand  of  death  to  stay. 
It  is  death,  it  is  death  that  sacks  the  rear 

While  demons  dip  and  dive — 
So  remember  long  and  hold  most  dear 

The  hero  of  the  drive. 


THE  DRIVE  105 


THE  CONNECTICUT  DRIVE. 

From  the  home  of  the  towering  spruces, 

By  Connecticut's  cataracts  hurled, 
We  have  come  over  dams  and  through  sluices 

To  knock  at  the  door  of  the  world. 
We  bring  you  the  wealth  of  the  forest 

That  long  in  her  treasure-house  stood ; 
We  bring  you  a  gift  on  the  river  adrift — 

We  bring  you  the  heart  of  the  wood. 

Like  the  horse  first  imprisoned  and  haltered, 

The  river  resisted  our  will — 
Now  stubborn,  unmoved  and  unaltered, 

Now  hot  with  a  passion  to  kill. 
It  foamed  in  white  fury  at  Turner's, 

At  Miller's  awoke  with  a  roar; 
Mad  the  race  that  we  rode  while  it  chafed  with  its  load 

As  it  groaned  with  the  burden  it  bore. 

But  we  conquered  the  turbulent  river, 

And  we  plunged  from  the  torrent's  alarms 
To  a  silence  that  trembles  forever 

O'er  a  valley  of  plenteous  farms. 
And  this  is  the  gift  that  we  bring  you, 

Borne  swift  on  Connecticut's  flood — 
From  the  land  of  the  spruce,  for  the  world's  ready  use, 

We  bring  you  the  heart  of  the  wood. 


106  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 

O  ye  who  stand  in  cloisters  old 

Where  ancient  priests  have  trod 
Who,  from  the  mystic  past,  unrolled 

The  story  of  your  God, 
O  ye  who  stand  where  kings  have  stood 

Who  shaped  the  world's  career, 

0  ye  who  stand  where  martyrs'  blood 
Has  roused  the  idle  cheer, 

1  stand,  like  ye,  in  mighty  place 
No  less  than  such  as  these, 

The  very  forum  of  the  race 

Where  mingle  centuries. 
For  here  the  rivers  of  the  land 

To  one  great  river  run, 
And  southland  loam  and  northland  sand 

Are  blended  into  one. 

For  here  the  great  Ohio  comes 

From  mountains  old  and  gray; 
It  brings  the  heartbeat  of  the  drums, 

The  sad  beat  and  the  gay. 
It  brings  the  music  of  the  mills, 

The  song  of  Industry, 
It  brings  the  wealth  of  granite  hills, 

The  heartwood  of  the  tree. 

And  here  the  Mississippi  flows 

From  Minnesota's  lakes; 
It  bears  the  northland' s  melted  snows 

To  tepid  cypress  brakes; 


THE  DRIVE  107 

The  waters  of  each  prairie  state 

Are  mingled  in  its  tide, 
It  comes  a  groom  importunate 

To  ciaim  the  waiting  bride. 

The  giants  of  the  East  and  North 

Here  thread  a  common  shore, 
Upon  a  common  altar  forth 

Their  sweet  libations  pour. 
Here  join  the  mighty  rivers  and 

Roll  onward  to  the  seas, 
Here  North  and  South  clasp  hand  and  hand 

For  all  the  centuries. 


108  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  REBELLIOUS  RIVER. 

A  river  flowed  through  tranquil  ways 

And  found  its  passage  to  the  sea, 
Its  life  unchanging  summer  days, 

Its  course  unchallenged,  channel  free. 
And  so  it  might  have  flowed  for  aye, 

So  might  its  life  forever  been 
Succeeding  summers  passing  by, 

Had  not  it  ventured  into  sin. 

But,  foolish  river,  it  was  proud 

And,  tempted  by  its  foolish  pride, 
It  spurned  the  forest  o'er  it  bowed, 

It  spurned  the  blossoms  at  its  side. 
It  longed  to  burst  the  banks  of  green 

That  fortified  its  verdured  length, 
It  longed  to  break  the  peace  serene 

And  demonstrate  its  mighty  strength. 

One  night  it  rose  rebelliously 

And  broke  the  bounds  its  form  confined, 
It  ran  untethered  to  the  sea 

And  left  a  ruined  land  behind. 
The  forest  trees  to  earth  it  beat, 

It  crushed  the  flowers  in  its  wrath, 
And  where  it  ran  with  errant  feet 

It  left  but  havoc  in  its  path. 

But  when  its  fit  of  rage  was  o'er 

And  when  its  mighty  strength  was  spent, 
There  came  a  cry  from  shore  to  shore, 

A  cry  demanding  punishment. 


'Thr    t'mvst    u't-r    ii 


THE  DRIVE  109 


The  forest  wept  for  slaughtered  shade, 
The  ghosts  of  murdered  flowers  rose, 

And  all  the  elements  were  made 
To  hear  the  stories  of  their  woes. 

They  sat  in  judgment  on  the  case, 

They  made  the  guilty  stream  confess, 
And  they  declared  that  one  so  base 

No  longer  freedom  should  possess. 
Yet,  when  the  time  for  sentence  came, 

The  elements  would  speak  their  will, 
Good  Mother  Nature,  gentle  dame, 

Would  show  the  culprit  mercy  still. 

So  this  the  elements'  decree: 

That  half  of  each  succeeding  year 
Imprisoned  must  the  river  be 

Nor  know  the  joy  of  summer  cheer, 
That  half  its  life  forever  more 

Behind  the  prison  bars  be  spent, 
Bars  more  secure  than  sandy  shore — 

This  was  the  river's  punishment. 

Six  months  were  added  to  the  past, 

Six  months  the  river  traced  its  course, 
Then  came  the  elements  at  last 

Their  chosen  judgment  to  enforce. 
The  jailer  Winter  seized  the  stream ; 

He  bound  the  river,  once  so  free, 
In  chains  with  diamonds  bright  agleam 

And  locked  them  with  a  silver  key. 


110  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  PLATTE. 

You  thread  Nebraska's  peaceful  miles, 

Reflecting  sunshine  kisses  warm, 
And  all  your  ways  are  bright  with  smiles 
And  all  your  days  are  peace  and  charm. 
You  flow  by  ranch  and  verdant  farm, 
You  nurture  fair  Nebraska's  corn, 
And  timid  kine  feel  no  alarm 

That  lap  your  limpid  edge  at  morn. 

But  I  have  learned  your  secret  deep 

And  I  have  read  your  hidden  scroll, 
And,  while  your  placid  waters  sleep, 

I  know  what  torrents  stir  your  soul. 

For,  river,  I  have  seen  you  roll 

Through  Colorado's  rocky  vales 
And,  e'er  you  reach  the  final  goal, 

I  know  what  stress  your  path  assails. 

And  are  not  men  like  unto  you? 

Are  there  not  souls  that  seem  as  still, 
Whose  inmost  springs  are  boiling,  too, 
Like  your  own  sources  in  the  hill? 
The  river  first  is  leaping  rill, 

From  mountain's  pentup  bosom  thrown; 
And  oft  the  soul  unmarked  by  ill 
Has  all  the  pains  of  living  known. 


THE  DRIVE  111 


"THE  BARBARY  COAST." 

Prior  to  1850  the  lumber  district  of  Philadelphia  was  along  the 
Delaware,  north  of  the  present  Callowhill  Street.  It  was  sometimes 
called  the  "Barbary  Coast,"  perhaps  a  well  deserved  title  because  of 
the  roughness  of  the  characters  who  brought  their  lumber  up  or  down 
the  river. 

Then  it's  ho!  for  the  Barbary  Coast,  my  boys,  it's  ho!  for 
Barbary  Coast ; 

We  will  drink  tonight  at  the  old  Red  Light  three  fingers  to 
the  host ; 

We  will  put  her  aground  tonight,  my  boys,  in  the  good  old 
Delaware — 

For  the  fresh  is  strong  and  the  day  is  long  and  the  morn 
ing  wind  is  fair, 

The  wind  is  fair,  is  fair. 

Two  hundred  thousand  of  new-cut  pine  and  a  quick  trip  is 
our  boast; 

All  hands  to  the  oar  and  we  touch  the  shore,  the  shore  of 
Barbary  Coast. 

So,  you  Salamanca  brave,  lay  hold ;  lay  hold,  you  big  Canuck ; 
There  are  yellow  shoals,  there  are  eddy  holes — and  only  a 

raftsman's  luck, 

Only  a  raftsman's  luck,  my  boys,  to  land  her  safe  and  sound, 
To  run  the  pier  and  swing  her  clear  and  bring  her  hulk  around, 

And  bring  her  hulk  around. 
So  lay  hold,  you  lads  from  Hester  Street,  lay  hold,  you  big 

Canucks ; 
A  hand  to  the  oar  and  an  eye  to  the  shore,  you  Salamanca 

bucks. 

Let  the  Susquehanna  rage  and  roar,  let  the  Susquehanna 
hiss — 


112  IN  FOREST  LAND 

We  will  cross  pull  to,  we  will  warp  her  through,  we  will  ride 
where  the  current  is. 

The  song  of  the  river  is  music  sweet  and  warm  the  springtime 
sun — 

But  better  still  is  Callowhill  when  the  river  and  we  are  done, 
The  river  and  we  are  done. 

We  will  sing  a  song  that  is  all  our  own,  we  will  steal  a  bar 
maid's  kiss — 

So  what  care  we,  while  the  river's  free,  for  the  Susquehanna's 
hiss? 

It  is  still  tonight  on  Barbary  Coast,  it's  still  on  Barbary 

Coast. 
The  Red  Light  Inn,  the  house  of  sin,  has  vanished  with  the 

host. 
No  raftsman's  song  breaks  the  midnight  air,  the  pilot  gray 

is  gone; 
No  raft  is  tied  the  quay  beside,  and  the  years  flow  on  and  on, 

The  years  flow  on  and  on. 

Now  across  the  silent  Delaware  there  sweeps  a  misty  ghost  ; 
The  moon  shines  still  on  Callowhill — but  dead  is  Barbary 

Coast. 


THE  DRIVE  113 


THE  GLIDERS. 

It  is  often  declared  by  the  poets  long-haired 

Thet  life  is  a  stream  we  are  ridin', 
Thet  to  some  port  below  thet  no  man  seems  to  know 

Us  fellahs  are  gradjully  glidin'. 
Some  people  I've  spied  who  seem  real  glad  to  glide 

An'  never  will  rustle  a  paddle, 
Who  float  down  the  stream  in  a  kind  of  a  dream 

An'  are  satisfied  simply  to  daddle. 
This  loafin'  along  to  some  folks  may  seem  fine — 
But  /'//  take  the  good,  old  quickwater  fer  mine. 

They  talk  about  strife  an'  the  sweet,  simple  life 

An'  the  folly  of  hustle  an'  worry ; 
They  seem  kind  o'  proud  thet  they've  never  allowed 

Themselves  to  git  into  a  hurry. 
They  find  a  green  pool  thet  is  shady  an'  cool, 

Er  they  monkey  around  in  an  eddy, 
An'  their  boat  whirls  about  an'  they  never  git  out — 

But  they  talk  about  nerves  thet  is  steady. 
But,  as  just  fer  me,  in  this  life-livin'  biz, 
I  want  to  git  somewhere,  wherever  it  is. 

Oh,  it's  hot  in  the  stream  with  the  sunshine  agleam 

An'  no  shade  er  no  shadow  thet's  coolin', 
An'  the  quickwater  foams,  an'  the  white  ripple  combs, 

An*  there  ain't  no  occasion  fer  foolin'. 
It's  your  life  in  your  hand,  an'  your  nose  in  the  sand 

Unless  all  your  muscle  you're  givin' ; 
But  when  you  git  through  an'  you  bail  your  canoe — 

Well,  you  know,  anyhow,  you've  been  livin'. 
So  none  of  the  life  thet  is  simple  fer  me; 
I  want  to  be  busy,  wherever  I  be. 


THE  MILL 


THE  THANKSGIVING  TURK. 

Thot  cock  fight  at  Kelly's  wan  Saturday  night 

Wuz  a  thing  Oi  will  niver  forgit — 
There  wuz  Irish  an'  Swades  full  av  whisky  an'  fight 

An'  some  Dootchmen  too  already  yit. 

There  wuz  burrds  from  Gran'  Rapids  an'  burrds  from  St. 
Paul 

An'  burrds  from  Duluth  an'  New  York ; 
But  the  cock  o'  the  walk  an'  the  pride  av  us  all 

Wuz  a  rooster  belonged  to  O'Rourke. 

This  burrd  wuz  part  Shanghai  an'  part  Plymouth  Rock, 

Part  Langshan  an'  Indian  game; 

Through  his  veins  coursed  the    blood  av  more    fancy-brid 
stock 

Than  Oi  kin  raymimber  the  name. 
He'd  a  comb  thot  resimbled  a  rid  flannel  shirt 

An'  a  beak  like  a  circular's  edge ; 
An'  whin  he  got  mad  an'  begun  to  kick  dirt 

He  cud  trun  it  aroun'  like  a  dredge. 

There  wasn't  a  mon  from  Kilkenney  or  Cork 

Who  money  cud  borry  or  beg 
But  knew  thot  the  burrd  thot  belonged  to  O'Rourke 

Cud  clane  up  the  boonch  on  wan  leg. 
The  burrds  from  New  York  looked  like  bantams  furninst 

Thot  burrd  wid  the  rid  flannel  comb; 
An'  we  knew  thot  the  first  thot  he  leaned  up  aginst 

Wud  wish  he  wuz  safely  to  home. 
115 


116  IN  FOREST  LAND 


At  a  signal,  two  burrds  in  the  circle  wuz  laid — 

An'  wan  wuz  the  burrd  of  O'Rourke, 
The  ither  a  burrd  thot  belonged  to  a  Swade ; 

Down  heads,  an'  they  both  wint  to  work. 
Thot  burrd  av  O'Rourke' s  gave  a  jump  an*  a  jab 

But  the  ither  looked  straight  in  his  eye 
An'  mit  him  full  tilt  wid  a  stoop  an'  a  stab — 

An1  we  kissed  a  month's  wages  goodby. 

Thot  burrd  wuz  part  Shanghai  an'  part  Plymouth  Rock, 

Part  Langshan  an'  Indian  game — 
But  the  Shanghai  part  mit  wid  a  terrible  shock 

An'  the  Langshan  part  likewise  the  same. 
The  Indian  part  we  found  niver  at  all, 

But  other  parts  scattered  aroun' 
Showed  the  spot  where  he  mit  wid  thot  burrd  from  St.  Paul 

An'  the  places  he  lit  on  the  groun'. 

Now  here  is  the  sayquil:    On  T'anksgiving  day 

At  the  boardin'  house  Mr.  O'Rourke 
Wuz  swately  requested  by  Missus  O'Shea 

To  carve  up  the  T'anksgivin'  turk. 
Wid  a  stabber  in  wan  hand,  in  the  ither  a  knoife, 

O'Rourke  tackled  bravely  the  job; 
An'  he  cut  an'  he  slashed  an'  he  jabbed  for  dear  loife 

But  made  no  imprission,  begob. 

Twaz  thin  that  O'Rourke,  bein'  Irish,  got  mad 

An'  he  sez  to  this  Missus  O'Shea: 
"Oi'm  anxious  to  foind  this  burrd's  brother,  bedad, 

If  he  still  is  a-livin'  this  day. 
If  the  brother  Oi  foind  of  this  T'anksgivin'  turk" 

(An'  the  plate  at  the  lady  he  hurled) 
"Oi'll  take  thot  same  turk,  or  my  name's  not  O'Rourke, 

An',  begorry,  Oi'll  challenge  the  wurrld!" 


THE  MILL  117 


GIVE  ME  AN  AX. 

'Member  when  1  was  a  kid  workin"  in  the  old  wood  lot 
Where  we  used  to  chop  an'  cut,  where  our  winter's  warmth 

we  got — 

Pa  on  one  end  of  a  saw,  me  upon  the  other  end, 
'Till  I  thought  my  body'd  break  like  we  made  the  cioss-cut 

bend. 

Then,  just  to  encourage  me,  make  my  bosom  swell  with  pride, 
Pa  would  say,  "If  you  can't  pull,  don't  git  on  the  saw  an' 

ride." 
Sometimes,  though,  the  saw  would  stick,  though  we  nearly 

broke  our  backs; 

Then  pa'd  yell,  "All  hands  stand  by— look  out  fer  heads- 
give  me  an  ax!" 

That's  some  twenty  years  ago;  things  have  changed  a  heap 

since  then — 

Pa  sleeps  where  the  wood  lot  was,  I  toil  here  fer  city  men. 
Some  I  marvel  at  their  ways,  some  I  marvel,  some  I'm  mad ; 
Diff  rent  sort  of  chaps  are  they  from  my  dear,  old,  cranky 

dad— 
Nothin'   here  to  breathe  but   smoke,   nothin'  here  to  hear 

but  noise; 
Wonder  thet  I  sometimes  long  fer  my  childhood  pains  an' 

joys? 

An'  I'd  like  to  shut  my  eyes,  shut  out  reason,  shut  out  facts — 
Hear  again,  "All  hands  stand  by — look  out  fer  heads — give 

me  an  ax!" 

City  folks  ain't  country  folks,  city  ways  ain't  country  ways — 
More  I  come  to  think  these  things  as  I  near  my  final  days. 


118  IN  FOREST  LAND 

When  I  read  of  boodlers,  read  of  those  who  rob  the  poor, 
When  I  see  the  villain's  hand  with  its  touch  defile  the  pure ; 
When  I  see  the  rottenness,  see  the  slowness  of  reform, 
See  how  high  a  wall  it  is  decency  an'  right  must  storm, 
Then  I  know  what  ails  it  all,  know  jest  what  it  is  it  lacks — 
Men  like  pa  of  old  to  yell:     "Look  out  fer  heads — give  me 
an  ax!" 


THE  MILL  119 


"THE  MILL  IN  THE  FOREST." 

A  rendition  in  words  of  the  musical  idyl  by  Eilenberg. 

While  twittering  songsters  yet  announce  the  morn 
And  all  the  wood  is  wondrous  calm  and  still, 

Upon  the  zephyr  tremulous  is  borne 
The  waking  rumble  of  the  forest  mill. 

The  great  wheel  moves;  the  foaming  waters  pour 
On  waiting  sands  in  crystal  melody ; 

The  saw's  high  treble  and  the  pulley's  roar 
Are  mingled  in  a  song  of  industry. 

Now  through  the  day  the  busy  millwheel  turns; 

And  through  the  day  the  saw  untiring  sings, 
Nor  rests  till  red  and  gold  the  sunset  burns 

And  blaze  and  gilt  on  all  the  landscape  flings. 

But,  as  the  orb  of  day  slips  down  the  west, 
The  waters  turn  to  other  ways  more  still ; 

The  weary  wheel  at  last  subsides  to  rest 
And  peace  comes  down  upon  the  silent  mill. 

A  yellow  moon  arises  o'er  the  trees, 

The  little  stars,  with  eyes  half-timid,  peep ; 

Night  brings  her  black  and  somber  tapestries 
And  wraps  the  forest  and  the  mill  in  sleep. 


120  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  CHAMPION, 

I  don't  recall  how  many  'twas 

That  Jimmy  Smith  could  pack, 
But  Jimmy  all  the  records  held 

To  Manistee  an'  back. 
No  shingle  weaver  in  the  world 

Could  hope  to  equal  Jim — 
From  Ogemaw  to  Saginaw 

They  tipped  their  hats  to  him. 

For  Jimmy  Smith,  the  packer,  was 

A  person  known  to  fame, 
An'  other  packers  traveled  far 

To  stand  by  Jimmy's  frame. 
Some  challenged  him  to  combat  by 

The  thousand  or  the  day; 
An'  then  at  night  they  took  to  flight 

To  regions  far  away. 

They'd  fill  his  bin  with  shingle  slits 

No  wider  than  a  thumb 
An'  give  the  extras  big  an'  fine 

To  some  ambitious  bum, 
But  Jimmy  Smith  would  only  smile 

Like  one  who  such  disdained — 
'Twas  all  the  same,  for  from  the  frame 

The  bunches  simply  rained. 

No  fancy  apron  Jimmy  wore 

Like  them  at  bargain  sales; 
He  had  his  hammer  near  at  hand, 

His  mouth  was  full  of  nails; 


THE  MILL  121 

An'  narrow  butts  or  extra  butts, 

The  fourteen-inch  or  four, 
He'd  slam  'em  in  an'  nail  the  tin 

An'  holler  up  for  more. 

Through  bins  stacked  high  with  shingles  odd 

Great  Jimmy  simply  romped, 
An'  never  in  that  shingle  mill 

Was  Jimmy  ever  swamped. 
There  wasn't  shingle  blocks  enough 

In  all  the  mills  about 
To  keep  a  bin  with  shingles  in 

That  Jimmy  wanted  out. 

But  Jimmy  met  his  Waterloo 

(I  think  her  name  was  Lu) ; 
She  come  along  in  early  June 

From  down  in  old  Kazoo. 
At  Riley's  boardin'  house  she  got 

A  job  at  slingin'  hash. 
He  heard  her  speak,  an'  in  a  week 

Great  Jim  was  Lulu's  mash. 

For  they  were  strangers  on  the  first 

An'  lovers  on  the  third  ; 
An'  they  were  married  on  the  tenth — 

An'  then  the  row  occurred — 
The  shingle- weavin'  champion, 

The  monarch  of  the  frame, 
From  pinnacle  so  lofty  fell 

At  old,  accustomed  game. 

For  Lu  had  heard  of  Jimmy's  skill; 

So,  for  their  weddin'  trip, 
She  told  him  he  could  pack  the  trunk 

An'  also  pack  the  grip. 


122  IN  FOREST  LAND 

The  trunk  was  two-by-three-by-four, 

An'  this  is  what  she  told 
Poor  Jim  that  day  to  stow  away 

Within  the  narrow  hold : 

A  summer  dress,  a  winter  dress, 

A  dress  for  spring  an'  fall, 
Another  dress  with  neck  so  low 

'Twas  scarce  a  dress  at  all, 
An  armful  too  of  bows  an'  ties 

That  women  like  to  use, 
A  dozen  skirts  an'  Jimmy's  shirts 

An'  seven  pairs  of  shoes ; 

A  perfume  box,  a  powder  puff, 

Of  corsets  seven  pair, 
Some  businesses  with  ribbon  through 

That  women  like  to  wear. 
Six  pairs  of  socks,  some  women's  hose, 

Three  pairs  of  rubbers  strong — 
An'  goodness  knows  what  other  clothes 

She  wished  to  take  along. 

An'  there  was  Jimmy's  clothes,  of  course 

An'  Jimmy's  collars  too, 
A  quart  of  Jimmy's  summer  ties 

An'  Jim's  suspenders  new. 
Jim's  polish  too,  an'  blackiri'  brush, 

An  extra  hat  for  Jim, 
Were  just  a  few  of  fixin's  new 

That  Lulu  shot  at  him. 

An'  Jim  went  bravely  to  the  work 
With  old,  courageous  smile; 

He  shed  his  coat  an'  shed  his  vest 
An'  tackled  Lulu's  pile, 


THE  MILL  123 


At  first  he  laid  a  course  of  gowns 

An'  then  a  course  of  hose; 
Then  bonnets  three  an'  finery 

He  heaped  on  top  of  those. 

A  course  of  trousers  followed  next, 

An'  then  a  course  of  shirts, 
An'  all  the  shoes  an'  blackin'  stuff 

He  wrapped  in  Lulu's  skirts. 
But  when  he'd  reached  the  utmost  top, 

Had  filled  the  trunk  an'  tray, 
The  stuff  that  Lu  still  at  him  threw 

In  heaps  around  him  lay. 

An'  so  he  took  the  dresses  out 

To  get  the  collars  in, 
An'  then  decided  it  was  best 

All  over  to  begin. 
The  socks  an'  salts  an'  other  stuff 

Were  tumbled  on  the  floor; 
There  wasn't  space  for  half  the  lace — 

But  Lu  kept  bringin'  more. 

He  thought  he'd  put  the  hats  in  first 

An'  then  he'd  put  'em  last ; 
He  thought  he'd  put  the  books  on  top 

To  hold  the  bonnets  fast. 
An'  then  the  liquid  blackin'  broke, 

The  powder  got  away, 
The  trousers  tore,  an'  Jimmy  swore 

On  this,  his  weddin'  day. 

There's  little  need  to  tell  the  rest 

Of  all  that  happened  then  ; 
There  are  some  griefs  too  sacred,  friends, 

For  ears  of  other  men. 


124  IN  FOREST  LAND 

The  train  that  would  have  borne  away 
The  groom  an'  blushin'  bride 

Pulled  out  that  day  for  Traverse  Bay 
While  Lulu  sat  and  cried. 

But  Jimmy  didn't  cry,  oh,  no; 

No,  Jimmy  didn't  cry. 
He  kicked  the  trunk  down  seven  stairs, 

Then  loaded  up  with  rye. 
It  was  a  naughty  thing  for  him 

To  get  upon  a  drunk ; 
But  then,  did  you  e'er  try  it,  too — 

To  pack  a  woman's  trunk? 


THE  MILL  125 


OSHKOSH. 

No  more  the  thunder  of  the  falling  pine 

Awakens  echoes  where  the  Wolf  descends; 
No  more  the  monarchs  of  that  regal  line 

Collect  rebellious  at  the  river  bends. 

The  silence  that  the  ultimate  portends 
Already  on  the  woodland  sets  its  sign ; 

The  woodsman's  ax  to  greet  the  morning  sends 
No  more  the  thunder  of  the  falling  pine. 

Now  comes  the  hemlock  prince  and  claims  his  own, 

In  tilt  or  tourney  ready  to  comjxite, 
And  mounts  with  sudden  pomp  the  empty  throne, 

His  title  proven  and  his  right  complete. 

The  cedar,  basswood,  gathered  at  his  feet, 
The  oak  and  maple  close  beside  him  grown, 

His  presence  whisper  and  his  scepter  greet — 
Now  comes  the  hemlock  prince  and  claims  his  own. 

The  busy  murmur  of  the  singing  mills 

Is  silenced  by  a  newer,  deeper  note ; 
With  newer  life  the  chosen  city  thrills, 

Her  destiny  no  more  a  thing  remote. 

No  more  on  Winnebago's  bosom  float 
The  cargoes  garnered  from  the  pine-clad  hills ; 

New  industry  succeeds  with  joyous  throat 
The  busy  murmur  of  the  singing  mills. 


126  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  SILENT  CITY. 

It  rose  by  magic  in  the  night, 
A  city  of  the  verdant  wood, 

Its  founders  men  of  brain  and  might, 
Its  builders  simple  men  and  rude. 
Where  evening  fell  o'er  solitude 
A  city  in  the  morning  stood. 

For  there  is  gold  in  tow'ring  pine 
And  there  is  wealth  in  maple  hill 

More  rich  than  treasures  of  the  mine 
That  make  man  labor,  love  and  kill. 
Yea,  fortunes  stand  by  forest  rill 
Awaiting  men  of  earnest  will. 

So  rose  this  city  by  the  stream 
That  sang  a  liquid  melody; 

So  rose  this  city  like  a  dream 
Of  that  the  poet  hopes  may  be — 
A  city  white  beside  the  sea, 
A  place  of  mirth  and  ministrelsy. 

With  evergreen  it  was  embowered, 
With  sweetest  perfume  it  was  scent; 

Above  it  piney  sentries  towered, 
Above  it  swaying  cedars  bent — 
The  earth  and  heaven  closely  blent 
In  one  unending  firmament. 

A  city  of  great  actions  this, 

A  city  of  the  singing  saw; 
The  morning  heard  the  crosscut  hiss, 


THE  MILL  127 

The  forest  bowed  before  a  law 

That  filled  its  mighty  heart  with  awe, 

That  crushed  it  with  relentless  paw. 

All  day  the  pine  tree's  cloister  rang 

With  sturdy  axman's  steady  blows, 
All  day  the  music  of  the  gang 

Above  the  woodland  echoes  rose, 

From  morning's  sun  till  evening's  close 

The  forest  held  the  forest's  foes. 

But  when  the  pine,  that  centuries 

Had  swayed  aloft,  no  longer  swayed, 
And  when  its  harp  among  the  trees 

The  passing  wind  no  longer  played, 

When  burst  the  sun  through  forest  shade 

And  killed  the  blossom  in  the  glade, 

Men  turned  away,  as  Amnon  turned 

From  Tamar,  whom  he  had  despoiled ; 
The  wasted  hill  and  vale  they  spurned 

Where  once  their  busy  axmen  toiled — 

Yea,  turned  they  as  the  Jew  recoiled 

From  that  poor  sister  he  had  soiled. 

Now  silent  is  the  humming  mill, 

Now  motionless  the  busy  wheel; 
The  thresholds  of  the  cottaged  hill 

No  longer  human  footsteps  feel. 

About  the  stumps  the  creepers  steal 

And  all  their  jagged  wounds  conceal. 

The  silent  city  dully  sleeps, 
A  city  of  the  living  dead, 
And  watch  the  gloomy  night-owl  keeps 


128  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Above  its  homes  untenanted. 

The  forest  creature  rests  its  head 

In  streets  once  loud  with  human  tread. 

But  in  the  silent  city  square 

The  hand  of  Time  is  working  on, 
And  in  the  shattered  woodland  bare 

The  years  replacing  riches  gone. 

Above  this  modern  Babylon 

Arises  now  a  fairer  dawn. 

For  base  intrigue  and  bloody  war 
Survived  have  regal  families ; 

And  thus  to  pomp  and  glory  more 
Shall  rise  these  fallen  forest  trees. 
For  men  of  lengthy  pedigrees 
Had  never  lineage  like  these. 

O  silent  city,  o'er  thy  head 

The  pine  shall  whisper  once  again, 
O  city  of  the  living  dead, 

The  rose  shall  blossom  in  the  fen. 

Reblooming  dell,  reverdured  den 

Shall  know  once  more  the  feet  of  men. 


THE  MILL  129 


THE  SAGINAW. 

The  river  now  is  calm  and  still  that,  in  its  glory,  rang 
With  humming  of  the  busy  mill,  the  music  of  the  gang. 
The  forest  echoes  now  no  more  the  shining  ax's  strokes, 
No  longer,  stretching  shore  to  shore,  the  jam  the  river  chokes. 
Now  silent  runs  the  Saginaw;  it  knows  the  peace  it  knew 
When  first  the  ruddy  Chippewa  explored  it  with  canoe. 

The  river  flows  with  little  change  and  melts  in  azure  bay, 
But  all  the  upland  now  is  strange,  transformed  the  verdant 

way. 

Where  once  a  million  forest  trees  gave  greeting  to  the  morn 
I  trace  the  course  of  summer  breeze  through  gently  waving 

corn. 

The  rugged  days  of  youth  are  done,  the  forest  echoes  cease ; 
Now  all  the  days  are  sky  and  sun  and  all  the  nights  are  peace. 

Yet,  Saginaw,  how  great  a  past  is  sheaved  with  other  years! 
In  what  a  mighty  mold  were  cast  your  lumber  pioneers! 
They  built  their  mills  the  stream  beside,  their  camps  upon 

the  hill, 

Ere  yet  the  red  man's  fire  had  died,  ere  yet  his  cry  was  still; 
And  down  that  pine-embroidered  flood,  by  currents  onward 

whirled, 
They  sent  of  silver-hearted  wood  enough  to  roof  the  world. 


130  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  TURKEY  TASTE. 

We  didn't  get  turkey  at   Higginsonville ;  we  didn't  shut 
down  the  old  rumbling  mill-why,  we  never  knew  'twas 
Thanksgiving  until  Bill  Jones  saw  the  word  in  an  o 
almanac. 

That  night  when  the  whistle  had  tooted  its  toots,  and  around 
the  old  wood-stove  we  dried  out  our  boots  and  hung 
up  our  socks  and  hung  on  to  our  snoots,  then  we  all  got 
to  talking  of  things  that  we  lack. 

Bill  Jones  did  some  cussing  (he's  handy  at  that),  while  around 
in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  we  sat,  and  he  said  that  a  man 
was  no  more  than  a  rat,  up  here  in  this  measly  old  lum 
bering  town. 

Then  he  cussed  his  fool  luck  and  he  cussed  his  fool  face  that 
ever  was  turned  toward  such  a  fool  place.  He  said  that 
the  grub  was  a  crime  and  disgrace,  and  did  up  the  cook 
and  the  company  brown. 

'Twas  then  Tim  the  Tarrier,  from  Tipperaree,  a  cheerful 
old  body  all  Irish  and  glee,  got  in  his  remarks  and  he 
said,  "D'ye  see,  you're  a  lot  of  unthankful,  un-Chnstian 
galoots 

Thrue,  to  please  you  no  turkey  has  suddenly  died  an'  been 
laid  out  with  cranberry    sauce  on  the  side.     No  giblet 
you  have  now,  all  gravied  an'  fried ;  you  have  no  perfun* 
but  the  smell  of  your  boots. 

"But  you   old  Bill  Jones,  you  know  down  in  Chi,  in  a  little 
back  flat,  with  the  alley  hard-by,  there  is  turkey  today 
an'  there's  sauce  an'  there's  pie,  an'  a  happy  old  1 
in  the  household  of  Jones, 


THE  MILL  131 

With  only  one  sorrow  to  make  'em  feel  blue  an'  that's  that 
their  daddy  ain't  there  with  'em  too;  but  they're  prayin' 
an'  longin'  an'  waitin'  for  you,  an',  thank  God,  they're 
not  after  a-hearin'  your  groans. 

"An*  the  rest  of  yez,  too,  who  have  dear  ones  somewhere — 
if  you  know  they  have  turkey  an'  somethin'  to  wear, 
if  things  here  are  rough,  what  the  divil  you  care,  so 
they're  happy  at  home  there,  the  mother  an'  kid? 

Just  close  your  two  eyes  an'  grab  onto  a  fork  an',  whether 
they're  back  in  Detroit  or  New  York,  'twill  taste  just 
like  turkey,  this  greasy  old  pork."  And  we  did  as  he 
said,  and  it  did,  and  it  did. 


132  IN  FOREST  LAND 


BILL, 

Bill  hasn't  no  accomplishment; 

He  isn't  like  his  brother  Jim — 
Of  all  these  fellows  thet  invent 

There  aren't  many  up  t*  him. 
For  Jim  has  in  his  blankets  hid 

Machines  t'  run  perpetual; 
Of  course  none  of  'em  ever  did, 

But  Jim  he  says  he  thinks  they  will. 

No,  Bill  ain't  got  no  special  gift 

Like  Alkaholum  Peterson, 
Fer  tears  an'  lafter  Pete  kin  sift 

From  jest  an  old  accordion. 
In  fact,  I've  often  heard  it  said, 

By  ev'ryone  but  Petie's  wife, 
Thet  Pete  a  brass  band  might  uv  led 

If  he  had  led  a  diff'rent  life. 

But  Bill  ain't  got  no  talents  like 

The  other  fellahs  on  the  crick ; 
He  ain't  no  scrapper  such  as  Mike, 

Who's  beat  up  half  the  bailiwick. 
Mike's  got  a  fist  an'  got  a  heart 

Thet's  never  known  a  friend  to  fail, 
Fer  Mike' 11  always  take  your  part — 

Unless,  of  course,  he's  down  in  jail. 

Poor  Bill  ain't  got  no  special  skill — 
Fer  instance,  such  as  Henry  Flint, 

Who  kept  the  books  at  Murphy's  mill 
An'  wrote  a  hand  as  plain  as  print. 


THE  MILL  133 

In  all  my  life  I  never  knew 

A  man  as  handy  with  the  pen. 
He  signed  some  checks  fer  Murphy,  too; 

We  haven't  seen  him  much  since  then. 

Poor  Bill  ain't  like  the  rest  of  us — 

He  plugs  along  from  day  t'  day; 
He's  jest  an  ordinary  cuss 

Who  lives  the  ordinary  way. 
But,  though  he  hasn't  any  gifts 

An'  hasn't  any  special  skill, 
In  all  life's  changes  an'  its  shifts 

You  sorter  kin  depend  on  Bill. 

Yes,  Bill's  an  ordinary  man, 

But  then  we  treat  him  jest  as  free 
As  if  it  had  been  Nature's  plan 

To  make  poor  Bill  like  you  an'  me. 
When  Jim  needs  money  to  invent 

Er  Pete  er  Mike  mus'  pay  a  fine, 
We  know  why  Bill's  among  us  sent — 

Fer  that's  the  time  fer  Bill'  t'  shine. 


DECKLOADS 


THE  INLAND  TAR. 

There  is  bigger  ships  go  trailin' 

In  the  sunset's  westward  path 
Than  this  ancient  tub  a-sailin' 

With  her  load  of  norway  lath ; 
But  a  sailin'  man's  a  sailor 

If  he  sails  a  sea  er  pond — 
It's  just  as  near,  either  there  er  here, 

To  the  sailor's  Great  Beyond. 


There  is  bigger  ships  go  cruisin' 

Than  this  bark  from  Manistee, 
But  they  ain't  no  more  amusin' 

When  we  strike  a  choppy  sea. 
From  Liverpool  to  'Frisco, 

Conneaut  to  Marinette, 
It's  jest  the  same  when  you  lose  the  game, 

An'  the  water's  jest  as  wet. 


There  is  bigger  ships  a-crossin* 

Bigger  seas  on  bigger  trips, 
But  the  place  to  git  a  tossin' 

Isn't  on  the  biggest  ships. 
On  a  cranky  little  schooner 

With  a  lee  shore  close  at  hand 
The  simple  cuss,  just  the  likes  of  us, 

Gits  a  chance  to  show  his  sand. 
135 


136  IN  FOREST  LAND 

So  don't  waste  your  precious  pity 

On  the  heroes  of  the  past  ; 
There  is  fellows  jest  as  gritty 

Sailin'  now  before  the  mast. 
An'  when  you  praise  a  sailor, 

Let  the  mighty  ship  go  by — 
The  man  who  sails  the  Erie  gales 

Finds  it  jest  as  hard  to  die. 


'In    tlip    sunset's    wos(\v:ir«] 


DECKLOADS  137 


THE  WOMAN  COOK. 

It  has  been  proposed  to  bar  women  from    employment  as  cooks 
on  lumber  craft. 

It  mayn't  be  strictly  handsome, 

It  mayn't  be  jest  polite — 
But  the  woman  cook  an'  her  menoo  book 

Must  disappear  from  sight. 
A  woman  I  know's  an  angel 

An'  purty  to  have  aboard ; 
But  weather  gits  thick  an'  folks  git  sick, 

An'  a  woman  thet's  sick — oh,  Lord! 


A  woman  kin  mix  a  puddin', 

A  woman  kin  build  a  pie, 
A  woman  kin  bake  a  chocolate  cake 

That's  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
Her  face  is  a  sweet  religion 

An'  her  voice  a  kind  of  balm — 
But  a  woman  can't  cuss  like  the  rest  of  us 

When  we  fall  in  a  dead,  dead  calm. 


A  woman  may  save  the  china, 

A  woman  may  sweep  the  floor, 
Keep  chimneys  clean  an'  geraniums  green 

An'  a  fresh  tow'l  on  the  door. 
A  woman  kin  boil  a  herrin', 

A  woman  kin  cook  a  clam — 
But  when  the  spray  knocks  the  jib  away 

A  woman  ain't  worth  a  damn. 


138  IN  FOREST  LAND 

A  woman  is  gold  an'  silver, 

A  man  is  iron  an'  steel ; 
A  woman  shrinks  when  the  lee  rail  sinks, 

But  a  man'll  die  at  the  wheel. 
A  woman  shud  rock  the  cradle 

An'  wait  by  the  cottage  door — 
But  men  belong  where  the  wind  is  strong 

An*  women  belong  ashore. 


UECKLQADS 


BACK  TO  THE  LAND. 

He  came  aboard  us  at  Duluth — 
A  namby-pamby  kind  of  youth, 
Who'd  have  enough,  we  surely  thought, 
Before  we  touched  at  Conneaut. 

He  said  he  wished  to  make  a  trip 

Upon  a  reg'lar  lumber  ship, 

To  benefit  his  failing  health; 

We  told  him,  if  he  sailed  for  wealth, 

He'd  reason  to  be  happy  if 
He  simply  made  enough  to  live; 
And,  if  his  health  he  journeyed  for, 
He  better  had  remained  ashore, 

For,  when  the  wind  and  water  race, 
The  lakes  are  not  a  healthy  place. 
Around  the  greasy  cabin  glim 
We  sat  and  thus  encouraged  him. 

But  still  he  said  he  guessed  he'd  stick; 
He  didn't  think  he'd  be  real  sick. 
We  told  him  sick  he  might  not  get 
But  water  was  extremely  wet 

At  this  partic'lar  time  of  year, 
And  likewise  we  expressed  a  fear, 
If  old  Superior  got  gay, 
'Twould  blow  his  Panama  away. 

That  night  we  stood  out  in  the  lake. 
We  felt  the  slackened  tackle  shake 
And  in  the  dark,  uncertain  west 
We  saw  a  cloud  with  purple  crest. 


DECKLOADS  137 


THE  WOMAN  COOK. 

It  has  been  proposed  to  bar  women  from    employment  as  cooks 
on  lumber  craft. 

It  mayn't  be  strictly  handsome, 

It  mayn't  be  jest  polite — 
But  the  woman  cook  an'  her  menoo  book 

Must  disappear  from  sight. 
A  woman  I  know's  an  angel 

An'  purty  to  have  aboard  ; 
But  weather  gits  thick  an'  folks  git  sick, 

An'  a  woman  thet's  sick — oh,  Lord! 


A  woman  kin  mix  a  puddin', 

A  woman  kin  build  a  pie, 
A  woman  kin  bake  a  chocolate  cake 

That's  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
Her  face  is  a  sweet  religion 

An'  her  voice  a  kind  of  balm — 
But  a  woman  can't  cuss  like  the  rest  of  us 

When  we  fall  in  a  dead,  dead  calm. 


A  woman  may  save  the  china, 

A  woman  may  sweep  the  floor, 
Keep  chimneys  clean  an'  geraniums  green 

An'  a  fresh  tow'l  on  the  door. 
A  woman  kin  boil  a  herrin', 

A  woman  kin  cook  a  clam — 
But  when  the  spray  knocks  the  jib  away 

A  woman  ain't  worth  a  damn. 


138  IN  FOREST  LAND 

A  woman  is  gold  an'  silver, 

A  man  is  iron  an'  steel ; 
A  woman  shrinks  when  the  lee  rail  sinks, 

But  a  man'll  die  at  the  wheel. 
A  woman  shud  rock  the  cradle 

An*  wait  by  the  cottage  door — 
But  men  belong  where  the  wind  is  strong 

An*  women  belong  ashore. 


DECKLOADS  139 


BACK  TO  THE  LAND. 

He  came  aboard  us  at  Duluth — 
A  namby-pamby  kind  of  youth, 
Who'd  have  enough,  we  surely  thought, 
Before  we  touched  at  Conneaut. 

He  said  he  wished  to  make  a  trip 

Upon  a  reg'lar  lumber  ship, 

To  benefit  his  failing  health; 

We  told  him,  if  he  sailed  for  wealth, 

He'd  reason  to  be  happy  if 
He  simply  made  enough  to  live; 
And,  if  his  health  he  journeyed  for, 
He  better  had  remained  ashore, 

For,  when  the  wind  and  water  race, 
The  lakes  are  not  a  healthy  place. 
Around  the  greasy  cabin  glim 
We  sat  and  thus  encouraged  him. 

But  still  he  said  he  guessed  he'd  stick; 
He  didn't  think  he'd  be  real  sick. 
We  told  him  sick  he  might  not  get 
But  water  was  extremely  wet 

At  this  partic'lar  time  of  year, 
And  likewise  we  expressed  a  fear, 
If  old  Superior  got  gay, 
Twould  blow  his  Panama  away. 

That  night  we  stood  out  in  the  lake. 
We  felt  the  slackened  tackle  shake 
And  in  the  dark,  uncertain  west 
We  saw  a  cloud  with  purple  crest. 


140  IN  FOREST  LAND 

It  struck  us  full  at  half  past  one — 
A  peal  of  thunder  like  a  gun — 
And  then  the  boards  began  to  slide 
From  windward  to  the  leeward  side. 

If  anything  can  raise  the  deuce, 
It  is  a  deckload,  once  broke  loose. 
Who  could  forget  a  night  like  that? — 
The  sky  as  black  as  any  hat, 

The  foaming  green  and  purple  wake 
We  left  behind  us  in  the  lake, 
The  load  that  listed  side  to  side— 
And  then  at  three  the  captain  died. 

We  saw  him  stumble,  reel  and  lunge, 
We  heard  a  frantic  cry,  a  plunge — 
We  saw  his  white  face  in  the  dark 
Sink  quickly,  like  a  steamer  spark. 

I  guess  we  all  went  crazy  then — 
Such  things  will  scare  the  best  of  men. 
Some  loosed  the  dory;  some,  afraid 
To  go  or  stay,  both  cussed  and  prayed. 

'Twas  then  we  heard  another  cry 
Above  the  storm,  "All  hands  stand  by!" 
It  was  the  namby-pamby  youth 
Had  come  aboard  us  at  Duluth. 

From  off  the  larboard  came  the  roar 
Of  combers  on  a  sandy  shore. 
We  saw  him  put  her  hard  a-port, 
We  heard  the  old  tub  give  a  snort — 


DECKLOADS  141 


Then  toward  the  rim  of  shining  sand 
He  drove  her,  bows  on,  for  the  land. 
She  struck,  she  lifted,  struck  again, 
Then  "Each  man  for  himself,  my  men!" 

We  heard  the  stranger  yell  once  more. 
Well — God  knows  how — we  got  ashore. 
The  stranger  said,  "I  guess  you're  right- 
With  such  a  craft  on  such  a  night, 

When  death  rides  every  billow's  crest, 
The  solid  shore  is  quite  the  best; 
A  safer  place  it  is,  for  fair — 
And  that  is  why  I  put  her  there." 


142  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  MEN  OF  BANGOR. 

The  wind  blows  west  and  the  wind  blows  hard  and  the  wind 

blows  loud  and  long, 
But  the  men  of  Bangor  laugh  at  gales,  for  the  Bangor  men  are 

strong. 
The  sea  rolls  high  and  the  sea  rolls  wide  and  the  sea  rolls 

blue  and  black, 

To  the  men  of  Bangor  sings  a  song — and  the  Bangor  men 
sing  back: 

We  are  the  men  of  Bangor 
Who  sail  the  salted  sea; 
We  are  the  men  of  Bangor — 

Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 
We  sail  to  the  south  with  the  morning  light 
Into  the  ocean  and  into  the  night ; 
Our  decks  are  heavy,  our  hearts  are  light — 
Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 

The  east  grows  pink,  the  east  grows  gray,  the  east  grows 

green  and  blue, 

And  the  men  of  Bangor  bend  the  sails,  and  sings  the  Ban 
gor  crew. 
The  night  comes  soon  and  the  night  comes  dark  and  the 

night  comes  black  and  chill ; 

But  the  men  of  Bangor  feel  no  fear  and  the  Bangor  men 
sing  still: 

We  are  the  men  of  Bangor 
Who  sail  the  salted  sea; 
We  are  the  men  of  Bangor — 
Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 
We  sail  to  the  south  with  the  new-cut  spruce, 
The  northman's  pine  for  the  southman's  use; 
The  wind  is  free  and  the  sheet  is  loose — 
Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 


DECKLOADS  143 

The  days  go  by  and  the  days  roll  on  and  the  days  are  bleak 

and  blear; 
The  maids  of  Bangor  kneel  and  pray,  for  the  Bangor  men 

are  dear. 

The  gale  breaks  loud  and  the  gale  breaks  strong  and  a  death- 
song  sings  the  gale, 

And  the  men  of  Bangor  look  at  Death  and  they  call  to  the 
ghostly  sail: 

We  are  the  men  of  Bangor 

Who  sail  the  salted  sea; 
We  are  the  men  of  Bangor — 

Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 
We  sailed  to  the  south  with  the  morning  light 
Into  the  ocean  and  into  the  night, 
But  we  saw  no  sail  as  thine  so  white — 
Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 

The  river  flows  to  Penobscot  Bay  and  Penobscot  Bay  to  the 

sea; 

And  the  men  of  Bangor  follow  on  to  the  ocean's  mystery. 
The  women  weep  and  the  women  wail  and  the  nights  are 

lone  and  long 

And  the  men  of  Bangor  come  not  back,  but  the  sea  wind 
sings  the  song: 

We  are  the  men  of  Bangor 
Who  sail  the  salted  sea; 
We  are  the  men  of  Bangor — 

Ship  ahoy!  and  who  are  ye? 
We  sailed  to  the  south  with  the  new-cut  pine ; 
We  sailed  to  a  port  in  the  foaming  brine ; 
Yet  whose  the  conquest — ours  or  thine? 
Ship  ahoy!    Death,  who  are  ye? 


144  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  DEPARTURE. 

The  chief  sang  softly  to  his  birch  canoe, 
"O  Swallow-Bird,  O  skimmer  of  the  bay, 
Bear  me  upon  its  bosom  far  away, 

Away  from  all  these  sounds  and  faces  new — 

For  I  would  be  alone,  alone  with  you. 

"O  Swallow-Bird,  when  first  I  shaped  your  form, 
The  days  were  still,  the  nights  were  only  stars, 
The  water  lapped  the  shining,  golden  bars 

Or  sang  defiance  to  the  thunder  storm; 

And  nature  wooed  me  with  her  kisses  warm. 

"But  now  new  sounds  re-echo  on  the  hill, 

Strange  beings  tread  my  father's  woodland  path. 
O  Manitou,  are  these  thy  men  of  wrath? 

In  what,  O  Manitou,  have  we  done  ill? 

We  feel  thy  rod,  and  yet  thy  voice  is  still." 

The  chief  knelt  softly  in  his  birch  canoe ; 
He  paddled  swiftly  o'er  the  open  bay, 
He  followed  westward  the  expiring  day, 
Calling,  still  calling  on  great  Manitou, 
Crooning,  "O  Swallow-Bird,  alone  with  you." 

At  morn  his  people  gathered  on  the  shore. 

They  found  his  footprints  on  the  wetted  sand ; 

They  found  where  Swallow-Bird  had  left  the  land 
But  he  they  loved  returned  to  them  no  more 
And  Swallow-Bird  no  zephyr  homeward  bore. 

So,  by  the  shore  of  Time's  outrunning  sea, 
We  find  the  footprints  of  his  vanished  race. 
Here  stood  they  last — here,  from  this  final  place, 

Pushed  bravely  outward  to  eternity 

And  joined  earth's  peoples  that  have  ceased  to  be. 


DECK  LOADS  145 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SCOW  MARY. 

The  Mary  was  only  a  lumber  scow,  devoid  of  rigging  or  sail 

or  prow, 
An  awkward,  gawky,  South  Milwaukee,  bummy,  crummy  old 

lumber  scow. 
Two  hundred  thousand  without  a  groan  she  could  carry  of 

lumber,  or  tons  of  stone, 
But  excursion  steamers  and  tug-line  screamers  passed  her, 

sassed  her  and  left  her  alone. 

"For  we,"  they  said,  "are  slim  and  trim,  and  over  the  water 

like  birds  we  skim; 
While  you  are  prosy  and  dull  and  dozy,  so  musty  and  rusty 

you  scarcely  swim." 
So  the  Gladys  luffed  when  they  chanced  to  meet  and  the 

Swallow  showed  her  a  pair  of  feet ; 
One  and  all  they  snubbed  her,  a  "fossil"  dubbed  her — laughed 

at,  chaffed  at,  throughout  the  fleet. 

But  the  Mary  simply  held  her  peace  and  watched  the  sky  in 

the  nor'-nor'-eas' 
Grow  dead  and  brassy,  glow  green  and  glassy  and  the  hoppy, 

choppy  sea  increase. 
With  her  hold  half  full  of  norway  plank,  the  good  scow  Mary 

gave  a  yank 
And  something  parted — the  Mary  started,  jamming,  ramming 

from  bank  to  bank. 

If  ever  revenge  was  really  sweet,  if  ever  revenge  was  quite 

complete, 
'Twas  when  the  Mary  got  started  fairly  to  square  things, 

tear  things  with  that  fleet. 


146  IN  FOREST  LAND 

If  anything  ever  has  raised  the  deuce,  'twas  the  good  scow 

Mary  that  day  broke  loose. 
The  Swallow  was  swallowed,  the  Gladys  followed — not  a  sail 

or  a  rail  left  fit  for  use. 

There  wasn't  a  steamer  got  in  the  way  was  left  afloat  at  the 

close  of  day. 
There  wasn't  a  tug  left  had  even  a  chug  left  when  the  Mary 

contrary  had  ceased  her  play. 
And  the  Mary  said  as  she  wiped  her  brow,  "I  guess  they've 

learned  to  respect  me  now 
Though  I'm  only  a  gawky,  South  Milwaukee,  bummy,  crummy 

old  lumber  scow." 


DECKLOADS  147 


PORTE  DES  MORTES. 

"Who  would  the  beauties  of  the  Bay  explore," 
The  captain  said,  "must  journey  through  the  Door — 
The  Door  of  Death."    And,  at  the  name  so  grim, 
I  trembled.    Indian  legends  old  and  dim 
Rose  swiftly,  like  a  cloud  bank  ghostly  white, 
Rose  swiftly  on  the  silence  of  the  night. 
I  knew  the  story — knew  that  on  the  sands 
Beneath  the  billows  slept,  with  clutching  hands, 
The  warrior  proud,  the  chieftain  gaunt  and  gray — 
And  would  the  morrow  make  me  such  as  they? 

Then  came  the  dawn.     Night's  shield  of  iron,  released, 

Fell,  molten,  in  the  cauldron  of  the  east, 

And,  far  and  sweet,  the  day's  first  seabird  called 

Across  a  wide  expanse  of  emerald. 

The  rocks,  the  pillars  of  the  deathsome  door 

On  either  side,  the  swaying  pine  tree  bore. 

The  gentle  waves  caressed  the  smiling  sands 

Where  earth  and  water  clasped  their  loving  hands, 

This  was  the  Door  of  Death — a  place  of  peace, 

A  peace  like  that  when  bells  their  tinkling  cease. 

"Who  would  the  beauties  of  new  life  explore," 

The  captain  said,  "Must  journey  through  the  Door — 

The  Door  of  Death."    Oh,  when  I,  too,  consign 

To  swiftly  running  tide  this  soul  of  mine, 

May  then  the  door  of  death  appear  as  fair 

And  tints  of  dawn  succeed  the  shades  of  care. 

Oh,  may  I  find  the  undiscovered  land 

But  verdured  rocks  and  smiling,  golden  sand — 

My  soul,  as  slips  the  night  of  life  away, 

Be  soothed  by  glimpses  of  the  quiet  bay. 


148  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  CHANNEL. 

The  commerce  from  the  northland's  shor 
Finds  here  a  channel  deep  and  sure, 
And  safe  in  Huron's  bosom  moor 

The  fleets  of  great  Superior. 

They  bear  the  fallen  forest  trees, 

They  bear  the  heart-blood  of  the  hills — 
They  bear  the  wealth  of  mines  and  mills, 

The  treasures  of  the  inland  seas. 

And  it  is  well  we  celebrate 

The  channel  genius  here  has  made, 

This  pulsing  artery  of  trade 
That  links  the  state  and  sister  state, 

For  in  our  messengers  afloat 

That  bear  our  commerce  east  and  west 
The  people  are  most  truly  blest — 

A  busy  peace  makes  war  remote. 


DECKLOADS  149 


A  NARRATIVE. 

The  British  schooner  Laconia,  which  sailed  from  Bottswoodville, 
N.  B.,  with  a  cargo  of  lumber  November  17,  1904,  arrived  at  New 
York  April  13,  1905.  It  had  encountered  seven  hurricanes  and  forty 
gales  and  had  been  blown  as  far  as  Barbados. 

Twas  on  November  seventeen,  when  winds  were  blowing 
chill, 

The  good  Laconia  set  sail  from  out  of  Bottswoodville. 

Brave  Captain  Troop  thus  wrote  his  wife  before  he  sailed 
away : 

"I'll  dine  with  you  in  Brooklyn  town  when  comes  Thanks 
giving  day." 

And  with  the  skipper  rode  John  Holm,  and  Jacobson  the 
mate, 

And  Alexander  Henderson  to  keep  her  footing  straight. 

Jack  Gannon,  in  the  proper  time,  the  lonely  dog  watch 
took. 

Jim  Powell  was  the  lookout  man  and  Oscar  was  the  cook. 

When  three  days  out  of  Bottswoodville  there  came  a  puff 

of  rain 

And  then  the  schooner  plunged  her  nose  deep  in  a  hurri 
cane. 
The  wind   blew  east,  the  wind  blew  west,  the  wind  blew 

south  and  north 

And  all  the  demons  of  the  deep  their  anger  bellowed  forth. 
They  seized  the  schooner  in  their  hands,   they  shook  her 

like  a  rat 

Until  no  man  knew  where  she  lay,  what  shore  she  pointed  at. 
She  pointed  north,  she  pointed  south,  she  pointed  west  and 

east, 
Three   times   around   the   compass   swung    before   she   was 

released. 


150  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Then  two  long  weeks  and  many  miles  she  sailed  through 

ocean  gales 
That  sprung  her  seams  and  washed  her  decks  and  blew  away 

her  sails. 

A  staysail  soon  went  overboard,  a  topmast  blew  away, 
Till  at  the  mercy  of  the  seas  the  lumber  schooner  lay. 
Then  came  another  hurricane;  five  others  followed  fast; 
Through  two-score  gales  that  tore  the  sea  the  lumber  schooner 

passed. 

And,  when  the  sixty  days  were  done,  the  mainsail  stood  alone ; 
And  ev'ry  seam  the  water  took  and  ev'ry  rope  made  moan. 

Thanksgiving  Day  brave  Captain  Troop  in  Brooklyn  did 

not  dine; 

He  fought  to  keep  his  craft  afloat,  his  body  from  the  brine. 
And  Christmas  found  him  on  the  sea,  still  far  from  great 

New  York; 

He  dined  on  bread  of  wetted  flour  and  strips  of  salted  pork. 
That  day  a  tramp  from  Trinidad,  for  distant  Havre  bound, 
The  poor  Laconia  beheld  and  slowly  came  around. 
"Now  leave  your  ship  and  come  with  me,"   the  steamer 

captain  cried; 

But  Captain  Troop  but  shook  his  head  and  not  a  man  replied. 
"Then,  if  you  will  not  leave  the  ship,  pull  but  a  yawlboat 

near 

That  I  may  send  across  to  you  a  load  of  Christmas  cheer." 
But,  when  the  yawl  had   struck  the  wave,  it  crumbled  like 

a  shell 
And  sadly  o'er  the  boiling  sea  the  captains  bade  farewell. 

On  January  seventeen,  so  strange  the  sea  wind  blows, 

The  good  Laconia  put  in  at  sunny  Barbados. 

The  mainsail  kept  still  on  her  course  that  water-sodden 

boat  ; 
Naught  but  her  load  of  Brunswick  pine  had  kept  the  craft 

afloat. 


DECKLOADS  151 

One  day  in  April,  like  a  bird  blown  far  from  homeward 
way, 

The  lumber  schooner  anchor  cast  at  last  in  New  York  Bay. 

And  she  who  ended  there  her  course  and  furled  her  tat 
tered  sails 

Through  seven  hurricanes  had  passed  and  weathered  forty 
gales. 

Think  not    that   all  our   heroes  ride   behind   our   frowning 

guns; 
When  you  would  praise  the  nation's  brave,  think  on  these 

humble  ones. 
Think  not  that  men  face  death  alone  on  cruisers  gray  and 

grim; 

The  hero  of  the  lumber  scow — O,  brothers,   think  on  him. 
He  wears  no  uniform  of  blue,  he  wears  no  silver  star, 
Yet  rides  he  where  the  waters  hiss  and  where  the  dangers 

are. 

If  war  shall  come  and  nation  call  for  men  to  do  and   die, 
His   voice   will   be   among    the    first,   yea,   first  to  answer 

"Aye." 

His  life  is  given  up  to  toil  that  you  may  housen  be — 
Defender  of  the  tune  of  peace,  reservist  of  the  sea. 


THE   BOY 


THE  BIG  TREE. 

Underneath  the  old  Big  Tree, 

Just  a  girl  and  dog  and  I, 
Counting  not  the  years  of  glee, 

Years  of  childhood,  slipping  by. 
Just  a  girl  and  boy  and  Jack, 

As  the  skimming  swallows  free ; 
But  no  magic  bringeth  back 

Days  beneath  the  old  Big  Tree. 


Underneath  the  old  Big  Tree, 

From  its  leafy  branches  hung, 
There  a  swing  swayed  temptingly 

Where  in  childhood  days  we  swung. 
Frayed  and  shredded  now  the  ropes 

As  the  things  that  cannot  be, 
Buried  now  the  childish  hopes 

Underneath  the  old  Big  Tree. 


Faithful  Jack  has  felt  the  years, 

Stilled  the  bark  so  small  and  brave, 
And  we  wet  with  later  tears 

Grasses  growing  on  his  grave. 
Marching  time  that  onward  sweeps 

Brings  no  man  as  true  as  he, 
Half  as  true  as  he  who  sleeps 

Underneath  the  old  Big  Tree. 
153 


164  IN  FOREST  LAND 

With  the  reason  of  the  man 

And  the  candor  of  the  brute — 
Just  a  soul  in  black  and  tan, 

Tender,  eloquently  mute. 
Dog  and  girl  and  dreaming  boy, 

These  made  up  the  comrades  three — 
Reaping  all  they  might  of  joy 

Underneath  the  old  Big  Tree. 

There  are  trees  in  other  lands 

Greater,  taller,  fairer  far; 
But  one  tree  in  mem'ry  stands 

Binding  earth  and  singing  star. 
In  its  waving  branches  high 

Heaven's  golden  door  I  see — 
Let  me  at  the  threshold  lie 

Underneath  the  old  Big  Tree. 


THE  BOY  155 


THE  LAND  OF  CHRISTMAS  TREES. 

My  papa  works  in  a  lumber  camp 
In  the  land  of  Christmas  trees, 

And  he  wrote  to  me, 

"I  wish  you  could  see 
Such  Christmas  trees  as  these  I 
In  the  swamp  so  cold,  in  the  swamp  so  damp, 
There  are  cedars  green  and  great, 

There  are  pines  so  high 

That  they  touch  the  sky, 
There  are  hemlocks  slim  and  straight. 

"They  smile  to  the  moon,  they  sing  to  the  star, 
They  nod  to  the  passing  breeze, 

And  every  bough 

Wears  diamonds  now, 
In  the  land  of  Christmas  trees." 
O  wonderful  land  in  the  north  woods  far, 
O  wonderful,  beautiful  land! 

In  my  cot  so  white 

I  dream  at  night 
Of  the  forest  green  and  grand. 

My  mama  says  that  the  snow  that  lies 
In  the  land  where  the  great  trees  grow 
Is  like  the  spread 
On  my  little  bed 
Where  at  night  to  sleep  I  go ; 
That  underneath  with  tight-shut  eyes 
The  flowers  are  slumbering— 
There  snug  and  warm 
From  the  winter  storm 
They  wait  for  the  call  of  spring 


166  IN  FOREST  LAND 

So,  when  I  kneel  for  the  night's  amen, 
I  think  of  the  Christmas  land, 
I  say  a  prayer 
For  my  papa  there 
In  the  forest  green  and  grand; 
And  another  prayer  I  whisper  then 
While  I  kneel  on  bended  knees — 
That  the  Lord  will  keep 
The  flowers  that  sleep 
In  the  land  of  Christmas  trees. 


THE  BOY  J57 


GIVE  A  BOY  A  DAWG. 

Give  to  Pa  a  horse  to  drive, 
Give  to  Ma  a  dress; 

Give  to  brother  Bill  a  five, 
A  doll  to  Baby  Bess. 

Give  to  sister  Mame  a  beau 
To  sit  with  on  a  lawg ; 

These  are  dandy  things,  I  know- 
But  give  a  boy  a  dawg. 

Give  a  boy  a  dawg  an'  he's 

Got  a  faithful  pard ; 
When  he  hooks  from  apple  trees 

Rover  will  stand  guard. 
When  he  goes  the  woods  to  roam 

Dawg  will  follow  on, 
Quick  to  find  the  way  back  home 

When  the  sun  is  gone. 

Give  a  boy  a  dawg  an'  he's 

Safe  as  by  your  arm, 
For  two  pardners  such  as  these 

Seldom  come  to  harm. 
Rain  or  storm  or  sudden  night, 

Snow  or  hail  or  fog — 
If  you'd  bring  him  through  'em  right, 

Give  a  boy  a  dawg. 


168  IN  FOREST  LAND 


RUNNIN'  LAWGS. 

Runnin'  lawgs  is  dandy  fun! 
Course,  you  hadn't  ought  to  run 
Lawgs  at  all.     It's  dangerous, 
An'  it  makes  the  boom  man  cuss. 
"Say,  you  kids,"  you'll  hear  'im  say, 
"You'll  get  drownded  all  some  day." 
Yep,  it's  risky  lawgs  to  run — 
Guess  it's  that  that  makes  it  fun 
Runnin'  lawgs. 

If  a  boom  of  lawgs  you  found, 
Do  you  think  you'd  go  around? 
No;  you'd  chase  away  your  dawg; 
Then  you'd  jump  down  on  a  lawg; 
Then  you'd  have  to  jump  agin 
To  another,  or  git  in; 
For  the  slipp'ry  lawg  will  sink 
With  you  quicker'n  a  wink 
Runnin'  lawgs. 

Ma  says  wickedness  and  sin's 
Like  runnin'  lawgs.    A  boy  begins 
Doin'  wrong ;  an'  then  he  keeps 
Going'  on  by  jumps  an'  leaps 
Till  he  comes  to  water  black 
Where  he  can't  go  on  or  back. 
Then  he  sinks  beneath  his  sin 
Just  like  some  folks  tumble  in 
Runnin'  lawgs. 


THE  BOY  159 


One  time,  'long  about  in  June, 
I  run  lawgs  all  afternoon. 
Then  I  went  to  Archie's  house 
'Cause  I'd  wet  my  Sunday  blouse. 
Ma  got  scared  an'  started  out 
Lookin'  for  me  all  about ; 
An'  they  told  her  pretty  soon 
I'd  been  seen  that  afternoon 
Runnin'  lawgs. 

Then  my  ma  she  cried  an'  cried, 
So  they  tell  me.    Well,  I  dried 
All  my  clothes  an'  started  back 
An*  I  met  my  ma  an'  Jack 
Lookin'  for  me.    Ma — well,  say, 
She  just  fainted  dead  away 
When  she  seen  me  once  agin. 
Funny — when  I'd  only  been 
Runnin'  lawgs. 


160  IN  FOREST  LAND 


TOMMIE'S  HOUSE. 

Tommie's  house  ain't  grand  or  great; 

Tommie's  house  is  small,  like  ours; 
But  there's  vines  that  climb  the  gate 

An'  the  path  is  lined  with  flow'rs. 
Near  the  street  it  doesn't  stand, 

'Cause  there  isn't  any  street — 
Just  a  footpath  in  the  sand, 

Made  by  little  children's  feet, 
To  Tommie's  house. 

You  kin  climb  up  Tommie's  trees, 

You  kin  walk  on  Tommie's  grass, 
You  kin  lay  an'  watch  the  bees, 

Buzzin',  buzzin'  as  they  pass; 
You  kin  listen  to  the  mill, 

You  kin  hear  the  birds  that  sing 
You  kin  run  an'  play  your  fill — 

You  kin  do  'most  anything 
At  Tommie's  house. 

I  expect  perhaps  some  day, 

When  I  git  to  be  a  man, 
I'll  be  livin'  far  away, 

Far  from  Tommie  an'  from  Nan. 
I  expect  some  night  I'll  sit 

Like  my  pa  does,  bended  low, 
Wishin'  for  a  sight  of  it, 

Wishin',  wishin'  I  might  go 
To  Tommie's  house. 


THE  BOY  161 

RIDIN'  ON  THE  CARRIAGE. 

Did  your  pa  ever  take  you 

Upstairs  inside  the  mill 
An'  let  you  ride  the  carriage 

Along  'ith  English  Bill? 
He  says,  "Now,  don't  git  frightened — 

Jist  stan'  up  stiff  like  me; 
Whichever  way  she's  goin', 

Why,  that  way  bend  your  knee." 
An'  then  Bill  pulls  a  lever 

An'  sort  o'  lets  'er  shoot ; 
An',  say — well,  holy  beeswax! 

You  ought  to  see  her  scoot ! 
She  kind  o'  gives  a  rumble 

An'  kind  o'  gives  a  hiss 
An'  then  you  hear  'er  singin', 

"Z — z-a-n-g — bunk — siss!" 

An'  when  she  has  no  mor'n 

Got  good  an'  goin'  gone, 
She  kind  o'  stops  a-sudden — 

But  I  keep  goin'  on. 
Then  pa  he  grabs  my  collar 

Jist  like  he  had  a  gaff, 
An'  Bill  an'  all  the  fellers 

They  laff  an'  laff  an'  laff. 
An'  then  she  prances  back'ard 

The  same  way  that  she  come 
An'  Bill  he  pulls  the  lever 

An'  then  you  hear  'er  hum. 
Have  you  rode  on  a  carriage 

An'  heard  'er  sing  like  this: 
"B — boom,  boom-boom,  b — boom-boom, 

"Z — z-a-n-g — bunk — siss"  ? 


162  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Them  fellers  on  the  carriage 

Are  funny  kind  of  men — 
They  jist  ride  this  way,  that  way, 

An'  so  an'  back  agin. 
For  them  it  ain't  no  trouble 

To  keep  their  places,  for 
I  guess  perhaps  that  maybe 

They're  fastened  to  the  floor. 
An*  when  it  conies  to  speakin* 

Them  fellers  understan' 
If  the  sawyer  nods  his  fore'ead 

An  whispers  'ith  his  han' . 
There  ain't  much  use  o'  talkin', 

The  place  so  noisy  is 
When  the  carriage  gits  to  singin', 

"Z — z-a-n-g — bunk — siss!" 

There's  many  kinds  o'  business 

For  boys  growed  up  to  men — 
A  kid  kin  be  a  barber 

Or  a  kid  kin  shove  a  pen. 
But  when  I  grow  to  manhood 

No  airships  I'll  invent; 
I  won't  be  any  lawyer, 

I  won't  be  president. 
There's  other  kinds  o'  business 

I'd  like  a  darn  sight  more 
Than  bein'  sent  to  Congress 

Or  running  of  a  store. 
I'll  just  ride  on  the  carriage ; 

There's  nothin'  fine  as  this — 
No  music  like  the  music, 

"Z — z-a-n-g — bunk — siss !" 


THE  BOY  163 


BUD  GREEN'S  HERO. 

Bud  Green  he  thinks  that  he  is  smart 

Because  he's  rode  upon  a  train, 
But  Bud  has  never  rode  a  cart, 

Like  me,  along  'ith  Jimmy  Mahon. 
But  what  Bud  prides  himself  on  most 

(An1  no  kid  ever  prided  more) — 
He's  seen  a  man,  he  likes  to  boast, 

Who  had  his  laig  shot  off  in  war. 

This  man  told  Bud  just  how  it  wuz 

He  lost  his  laig  that  awful  day; 
A  cannon  ball  it  come  ker-buzz — 

The  laig  it  cud  no  longer  stay. 
He  cud  'ave  dodged,  the  man  told  Bud, 

An'  saved  his  laig  an'  saved  his  pants 
But,  if  he  had,  the  ball  it  wud 

'Ave  passed  his  laig  an'  taken  Grant's. 

I  never  seen,  like  Smarty  Green, 

A  man  who  lost  his  laig  in  war, 
But  I'll  bet  marbles  that  I've  seen 

Of  sa wed-off  folks  a  darnsight  more; 
There's  Jamie  Mack,  who  lost  his  hand 

A-picking  splinters  from  the  gang, 
An'  Jones  on  one  leg  has  to  stand 

Because  a  bandsaw  went  ker-bang. 

The  man  who  lost  his  laig  in  war, 
As  bragged  about  by  Smarty  Green, 

Had  never  felt  no  buzz  saw  or 
Stuck  fingers  in  a  lath  machine. 


164  TN  FOREST  LAND 

Bud's  man  who  saved  the  general 
Who  won  the  battle,  held  the  fort, 

He  lost  no  arm  an*  eye  as  well 
As  other  things,  as  did  Old  Sport. 

I  guess  there  's  things  that's  worse  than  war 

Or  being  hit  by  cannon  balls — 
Say,  have  a  cog  that's  near  the  floor 

Take  hold  ujDon  your  overhalls. 
A  man  to  war  don't  have  to  go 

For  things  that  hurt  an*  things  that  kill, 
If  he'll  just  fool  a  year  or  so 

Around  a  good  old-fashioned  mill. 


POEMS  FOR  OCCASIONS 


THE  BURNING. 

As  a  young  mother  yields  herself  to  death 
And  only  sips  the  joy  of  motherhood, 
So  now  this  house  that  we  esteemed  so  good 

Lies  heaped  in  ashes  by  the  fire-fiend's  breath. 

The  one  knew  only  pain  and  one  soft  kiss, 
The  gentle  pressure  once  of  infant  arms. 
Yet  may  one  kiss  still  all  of  life's  alarms 

And  one  embrace  span  even  death's  abyss. 

Each  was  a  shelter  from  the  world's  affairs, 
Each  was  a  place  of  refuge  and  of  rest ; 
Each  to  her  bosom  her  own  infant  pressed 

And  with  a  gentle  hand  removed  its  cares. 

O  angel  Mother,  still  I  hear  thy  voice  ; 

0  absent  Mother,  still  I  see  thy  face. 
Across  the  years,  across  the  years  and  space, 

They  calm  my  spirit,  make  my  heart  rejoice. 

O  Home  of  mine  amid  the  gilt  and  gloss, 

1  learned  to  love  thee  in  a  little  while ; 

I  learned  the  welcome  of  thy  gentle  smile — 
And  now  I  learn,  alas,  how  great  my  loss. 

O  Home  of  mine,  from  out  thy  ashes  dumb 

Send  me  some  message,  some  sweet  thought  impart- 
Teach  me  to  build,  build  here  within  my  heart, 

A  hearth  like  thine,  where  weary  ones  may  come. 
165 


166  IN  FOREST  LAND 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 

She  stood  beside  the  westward  gate 
And  flung  it  wide  to  all  the  world, 
As  angels,  by  the  gate  empearled, 

Earth's  weary  travelers  await. 

And  she  was  fair  as  angels  are — 
Fair  with  the  mighty  mystery 
Of  golden  strand  and  emerald  sea 

And  purple  mount  and  shining  star. 

Yea,  fair  she  was,  and  great,  and  calm, 
And  proudly  reigned  o'er  many  a  mile; 
Her  every  sunrise  was  a  smile, 

Her  every  sunset  was  a  psalm. 

Yea,  fair  she  was — and  then,  unseen, 
The  thunder  shook  her  jeweled  throne ; 
Her  palace  tumbled,  stone  on  stone, 

And  left  unhoused  a  stricken  queen. 

A  tremor  ran  across  the  waves 
And  broke  in  terror  on  the  shore ; 
And,  where  a  garden  bloomed  before, 

New  mounds  arose  o'er  huddled  graves. 

Bright  as  her  future  and  her  fame 
The  skies  were  kindled  by  her  pyres ; 
Insatiate,  a  thousand  fires 

Wrapped  all  her  splendor  in  their  flame. 


POEMS  FOR  OCCASIONS  167 

The  night  came  down,  and  weeping  men 

Saw,  in  the  west,  day  flicker  out ; 

Yet  in  no  heart  arose  a  doubt 
That  God's  white  dawn  would  come  again. 

So,  San  Francisco,  in  thy  woe 

Doubt  not  the  day  again  shall  rise ; 

Come,  kiss  thy  dead  and  wipe  thine  eyes 
And  set  thy  features  to  the  glow 

That  wakens  in  the  yellow  east ; 

For,  from  thy  ashes  and  thy  pyres, 

Shall  rise  again  thy  thousand  spires 
In  numbers  and  in  fame  increased. 


168  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  LOUISIANA  PURCHASE. 

Like  men  who  play  at  chess,  great  minds  there  are 
That  play  with  nations — by  a  move  or  chance 
They  make  an  epoch  in  the  world's  advance, 

They  seal  sweet  peace  or  loosen  bloody  war. 

Yet  they  who  play  at  chess  and  play  at  strife 
Know  not  the  unrevealed,  the  ultimate. 
How  much  of  human  life  appears  as  fate ; 

How  much  of  fate  seems  human-ordered  life. 

The  little  things  men  oft  esteem  the  most, 
And  scorn  the  greater,  vital  things  they  do ; 
How  great  is  Austerlitz  till  Waterloo; 

How  small  are  titles  on  an  exile  coast. 

The  one-time  bauble  of  a  foreign  throne — 
A  throne  unconscious  of  fore-doomed  defeat — 
Arises  now,  its  destiny  complete, 

A  greater  empire  than  Napoleon's  own. 


POEMS  FOR  OCCASIONS  169 


THE  LOUISIANA  MONUMENT. 

Look  you,  O  stately  monument! 
How  good  a  thing  is  God's  intent, 
How  man  is  but  His  instrument. 

Look  you,  as  peoples  come  and  go, 
How  men  build  better  than  they  know — 
See  Livingston,  Marbois,  Monroe. 

Thus  are  our  acts  in  God's  will  blent ; 
Things  men  ascribe  to  accident 
Oft  bear  the  stamp  of  God's  intent. 


170  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  FILIPINOS. 

As  children  greet  an  infant  born, 

All  doubt,  and  fear,  and  faith,  and  smiles, 
O  Brothers  of  ten  thousand  miles, 

O  Brothers  of  the  later  morn, 

We  greet  the  people  of  your  isles. 

Onetime  we  looked  across  the  tide, 
When  first  you  came  within  our  care, 
And  saw  one  race,  one  people,  there ; 

We  saw  a  people  unified — 

Alike  in  work,  alike  in  prayer. 

But  now  you  come  around  the  earth 
To  teach  us  what  and  who  you  are; 
You  come  from  regions  vague  and  far 

And  gather  at  the  nation's  hearth, 
Strange  fruits  of  most  unselfish  war. 

One  race  you  are  not ;  for  in  you 
We  find  the  soldier,  artisan, 
The  Christian,  the  Mohammedan, 

The  savage,  and  the  aesthete,  too — 
No  man  like  to  his  brother  man. 

O  strange  composite  in  the  West, 
The  task  not  only  ours  to  teach ; 
But  you  across  the  way  must  reach 

And  draw  the  savage  to  your  breast — 
Must  breathe  the  message  each  to  each. 


POEMS  FOR  OCCASIONS  171 

O  varied  people  o'er  the  sea, 

Dream  not  of  eastward  exodus; 

Teach  you  your  brothers  thus  and  thus 
Until  one  people  you  shall  be — 

First  one  yourselves,  then  one  with  us. 


172  IN  FOREST  LAND 


NAPOLEON. 

He  gave  to  Europe  sword  and  gun, 
With  patriot  blood  he  stained  her  sod; 
But  to  a  land  he  never  trod 

His  pen  gave  more  than  sabre  won. 


JEFFERSON. 

Thine  not  to  lead  to  cannon  mouth 

The  fair-haired  North,  the  dark-cheeked  South — 

Thine  but  to  win  by  peaceful  ways 

These  hills  of  iron,  these  fields  of  maize. 


POEMS  FOR  OCCASIONS  173 


LAST  NIGHT  THE  SILENT  PLAZA  THROUGH. 

Last  night  the  silent  Plaza  through 

There  walked  a  ghostly  company 

Attired  in  oldtime  panoply. 
Last  night  across  the  waters  blue 

There  came  the  sound  of  muffled  oar 

That  Ferdinand  De  Soto  bore. 


Last  night  there  climbed  the  marble  stair 
With  clinking  silver  musical, 
A  gentleman — Le  Sieur  la  Salle. 

Last  night  there  came  a  whispered  prayer, 
A  golden  moment  'mid  the  dross, 
And  Pere  Marquette  bore  high  a  cross. 


Last  night  there  marched  a  maddened  crew 
With  Coronado,  famed  and  bold, 
Who  walked  on  gold  and  saw  no  gold. 

Last  night  another  nearer  drew ; 

And,  where  he  sowed  the  potent  seed, 
A  city  rose  to  greet  Laclede. 


Last  night  came  Livingston  and  read 

Upon  the  world's  gigantic  toy 

The  name  "Monroe,"  the  name  "Marbois." 
Then  "It  is  found,"  De  Soto  said. 

Then  said  La  Salle,  "  'T  was  not  in  vain." 

Said  Coronado,  "Spain,  O  Spain!" 


174  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Then  said  Laclede,  "O  heart,  well  done;" 
Monroe,  "Well  written,  mighty  pen;" 
Marbois,  "0  France,  what  might  have  been!" 

Then  Livingston  breathed,  "Jefferson;" 
And  he  in  solemn,  monk  design 
Whispered,  "O  God,  that  all  were  Thine!" 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


ON  THE  BLUFFS  OF  THE  LITTLE  BIG  HORN. 

'T  was  the  year  of  our  centenary,  the  wide  world  was  our 

guest ; 
We  told  of  the  things  accomplished  and  how  we  had  won 

the  West. 

We  sang  of  the  far  Montana,  the  land  of  gold  and  grain, 
The  land  of  the  hidden  metal,  the  land  of  the  fertile  plain. 
We  said  we  would  send  a  message  to  the  red  man  in  his  hills — 
The  hiss  of  the  steel  that  pierces,  the  hum  of  the  lead  that  kills. 

So  Crook  rode  north  from  Wyoming  with  a  thousand  men 

and  true; 
Then  Gibbon  rode  east  from  Bozeman  with  his  dusty  ranks 

of  blue; 
And  Terry  rode  west  from  Dakota  with  Ouster  knee  and 

knee— 

Custer  the  pride  of  the  nation,  and  his  Seventh  Cavalry. 
Loved  of  the  army  Custer,  laureled  with  battle  scars, 
Knight  of  the  newer  knighthood  under  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 

At  the  head  of  the  Rosebud  River  Crook  met  with  his  painted 

foe— 

And  Crook  rode  back  to  Wyoming,  a  painful  ride  and  slow. 
Then  up  the  Rosebud  River,  by  red  man's  trail  and  pass, 
To  the  land  of  the  Little  Big  Horn,  to  the  Valley  of  Greasy 

Grass, 

Rode  Custer — unhappy  victim  of  bloody  and  cruel  mistake — 
And  his  men  from  the  great  white  timber,  from  the  place  of 

the  mighty  lake. 

175 


176  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Weakened    and    small    their    number,    yet    someone    bade 

"Divide" ; 

The  word  was  the  fatal  blunder  by  which  great  Ouster  died. 
Ben  teen  rode  down  to  the  southward  and  Reno  rode  to  the 

west; 
McDougall  was  left  with  the  pack-train  to  do  the  thing  was 

best; 

And  upward  alone  rode  Ouster,  and  his  Seventh  Cavalry ; 
Upward  alone  rode  Ouster — into  eternity. 


They  came  with  a  fiery  message — the  answer  was  redder 

fire; 

They  came  in  avenging  anger — and  met  with  avenging  ire. 
San  Arc  and  Ogallala,  Brule  and  red  Cheyenne, 
Rode  in  the  circle  tightened  'round  Ouster  and  his  men. 
This  was  the  white  man's  message,  this  was  the  red's  reply; 
And  they  who  came  with  the  missive  remained  behind  to  die. 

This  was  not  war,  but  murder ;  this  was  the  savage  way — 
A  battle  without  surrender,  that  only  death  could  stay. 
Smith  rode  down  in  the  gully,  Smith  and  the  L  troop  men, 
Keogh  down  in  the  shallow — but  neither  came  back  again. 
Thinner  and  thinner  in  number  they  knelt  in  a  blazing  hell 
Till,  fighting  and  dying  and  praying,  the  last  of  the  heroes 
fell. 

We  send  to  the  red  a  message,  to  the  red  man  in  the  hills — 
'Tis  the  touch  of  the  hand  that  strengthens,  'tis  the  sound 

of  the  voice  that  thrills. 

We  sing  of  the  fair  Montana,  a  land  of  gold  and  grain, 
The  land  of  the  precious  metal,  the  land  of  the  fertile  plain. 
And  died  not  these  heroes  vainly ;  they  sleep  in  a  land  they 

blessed — 
For  they  gave  of  their  heart's  own  lifeblood  in  the  winning 

of  the  West. 


"The   great   white   timber' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  177 


NIGHT. 

The  arms  of  night  enfold  the  tired  day, 

The  heavens  light  their  million  little  lamps, 
And,  where  the  sun  beheld  the  world's  affray, 

The  gentle  moon  reviews  its  sleeping  camps. 
Thank  God  for  night;  thank  God  that  men  must  sleep; 

Thank  God  that  men  must  pause  in  toil  for  gain — 
For,  did  they  not,  their  eyes  must  ever  weep. 

For,  did  they  not,  their  hearts  must  ever  pain. 
Thank  God  for  sleep;  thank  God  for  night  and  rest ; 

I  take  the  balm  and  press  it  to  my  eyes. 
Here  I  shall  slumber,  head  upon  my  breast, 

And  here,  refreshed,  behold  the  new  day  rise. 


178  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THANKSGIVING. 

When  sheaves  are  stacked  in  bounteous  heaps 

On  summer's  fertile  plain, 
When  he  who  gleaned  the  treasure  sleeps 

And  dreams  of  garnered  grain, 
The  air  grows  warm,  the  night  grows  still — 

A  memory  of  June — 
And  slowly  o'er  the  distant  hill 

Ascends  the  harvest  moon. 

It  bathes  the  sheaves  in  silver  floods 

Of  light  of  heavenly  birth, 
It  lights  anew  the  fields  and  woods, 

It  glorifies  the  earth. 
Forgotten  now  the  winter's  snow, 

The  summer's  glaring  sun, 
And  heaven  above  and  world  below 

Are  mellowed  into  one. 

So,  when  the  days  of  toil  are  o'er 

And  harvest  days  are  here, 
Thanksgiving  comes  with  bounteous  store — 

The  moonrise  of  the  year. 
Its  rays  reveal  the  blessings  sent 

To  cheer  our  dreary  ways, 
And  heartaches  old  and  discontent 

Are  mellowed  into  praise. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  179 


THE  BIRTHPLACE. 

Not  'round  the  palaces  of  kings 

Is  woven  all  the  song  and  story; 
Time's  blazing  sun  as  often  flings 

On  humble  roof  the  gleam  of  glory. 
A  flow'r  may  grow  from  rugged  earth 

As  in  the  garden  of  a  Nero, 
And  simple  hut  may  render  birth 

Like  royal  house  to  future  hero. 

One  birth  men  celebrate  above 

The  birth  of  all  earth's  line  of  mortals; 
That  night  there  streamed  celestial  love 

Athwart  the  sky  from  open  portals. 
But  not  on  purple  or  on  gold 

First  looked  the  tiny,  infant  stranger — 
His  eyes  were  opened  to  behold 

The  sombre  wall,  the  rough-hewn  manger. 

I  know  not  whose  this  house  may  be, 

With  sighing  cedar  bending  o'er  it, 
Nor  know  how  future  history 

Shall  view  the  tangled  grass  before  it. 
The  chimney  built  of  stick  and  stone, 

This  place  of  simple  life  and  barter, 
May  be  the  pillar  of  a  throne, 

May  be  the  last  thought  of  a  martyr. 

Yet,  if  the  world  shall  never  know 
The  babe  that  here  awakes  to  being, 

If,  while  he  tramps  a  treadmill  slow, 
The  world  shall  pass  him  by,  unseeing, 


180  IN  FOREST  LAND 

Still  is  that  humble  roof  more  great 
To  that  fond  heart  than  any  other, 

For  he  will  pause,  when  life  is  late, 

To  dream  of  hearthstone  and  of  mother. 

For  castle  gate  and  palace  wall, 

For  cabin  door  and  sturdy  rafter, 
With  memories  our  hearts  enthrall 

In  those  long  years  that  follow  after. 
The  busy  man,  now  feeble  seer, 

To  some  dear  place  his  love  is  giving , 
Thus  one  shall  turn  again  that  here 

Began  the  mystery  of  living. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  181 


PYRAMID  PARK. 

Here  the  Creator  paused — and  Time  stood  still; 
The  burning  rock,  the  throbbing,  molten  hill, 
Solidified  unfinished,  at  His  will. 

Eastward  there  stretched  the  fertile,  rolling  plain — 
Ready  for  tramp  of  hoof  and  garb  of  grain, 
Ready  for  morning  sun  and  evening  rain. 

Westward  there  stretched  the  mountains  to  the  sea- 
Rich  in  the  verdant  splendor  of  the  tree, 
Rich  in  their  hidden,  golden  mystery. 

Here  in  this  spot,  this  uncompleted  land, 
The  great  Creator  stayed  His  mighty  hand 
That  man  might  look  and  learn  and  understand. 

Then  heavy  Time  resumed  its  slow  career; 
And  day  on  day,  succeeding  month  and  year, 
Slow-moving  Time  still  molds  and  fashions  here. 


_  .  _  .   - 


.  :  •:•-.  •-.:--     i-  :  i  • :  : 


;  T 


. :  M  --  -------- 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  183 


LEW  WALLACE. 

Each  man  must  leave  to  earth  a  legacy; 

Embarking  on  the  waves  of  mystery 

Must  leave  some  footprint  by  the  unknown  sea. 

Some  leave  behind  them  shining  piles  of  gold ; 
Some  leave  behind  them  lineage  of  old ; 
Some  leave  behind  but  granite  gray  and  cold. 

Some  leave  behind  a  blood-encrusted  sword; 
Some  leave  behind  love's  broken,  silken  cord ; 
Some  leave  behind  a  monarch's  wand  and  word. 

What  leavest  thou  in  legacy  or  lore? 

What  leavest  thou,  to  be  remembered  more? 

What  leavest  thou  here  on  the  silent  shore? 

Not  sword  alone,  for  long  thy  sword  was  cold, 
Ancestral  name  or  heaps  of  shining  gold, 
But  this,  the  story  that  thy  genius  told. 

Now  still  thy  lips,  impotent  now  thy  hand ; 
But  men  shall  find  thy  footprint  in  the  sand 
And  many  things  shall  see  and  understand. 

For  men  shall  walk  with  Him  of  Nazareth  ; 
For  men  shall  breathe  faith's  everlasting  breath 
And  solve  the  mystery  of  life  and  death. 

This  is  the  treasure  that  thou  leavest,  then ; 

This  is  the  legacy  thou  leavest  men — 

Long  sheathed  thy  sword,  but  ever  speaks  thy  pen. 


184  IN  FOREST  LAND 


GOOD  NIGHT,  MOTHER. 

Good  night,  Mother — close  your  eyes, 

Sleep,  the  sleep  deserving; 
Finished  now  life's  fabric  lies, 

Done  the  hours  of  serving. 
Good  night,  Mother — though  you  sleep, 

Love  shall  not  forsake  you; 
We,  who  watch  alone,  shall  weep, 

But  we  would  not  wake  you. 

Good  night,  Mother — it  is  night 

To  the  hearts  that  love  you, 
But  the  day  eternal's  light 

Marks  the  path  above  you. 
Good  night,  Mother— in  the  dawn, 

Now  the  sky  adorning, 
Angel  voices  beckon  on. 

Singing,  "Soul,  good  morning!" 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  185 


SYMPATHY. 

No  man  so  poor  but  he  may  give 

To  other  men  some  cheer, 
No  man  too  low  or  high  may  live 

To  help  some  brother  near. 
The  forest  that  we  tread  is  dark 

And  hidden  is  the  trail; 
Oh,  keep  alight  the  single  spark 

That  leads  to  Holy  Grail. 

Xo  gift  so  cheap  to  give,  and  yet 

No  gift  so  dear  to  hold  ; 
The  eyes  that  weep  when  eyes  are  wet 

Are  mines  of  rarest  gold. 
No  gift  so  cheap  as  love  is  cheap, 

Yet  none  so  rich  may  be 
As  they  who  on  their  altars  keep 

The  lamp  of  sympathy. 

A  forest  dark,  bewildering, 

This  life  we  wander  through ; 
Praise  God  for  those  who  work  and  sing, 

For  both  we  have  to  do — 
Our  greater  mission  not  to  win 

The  thing  we  most  desire, 
But  more  to  keep,  through  care  and  sin, 

Our  hearts  with  love  afire. 

For  there  are  others  on  the  road, 

The  dark  and  misty  trail, 
And  we  who  bear  the  lighter  load 

Must  help  the  ones  who  fail; 


186  /AT  FOREST  LAND 

And,  helping  on  the  weary  soul 
Who  stumbles  by  alone, 

Thus  we,  in  striving  for  his  goal, 
Shall  come  upon  our  own. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  187 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

I  hold  him  dearest  who  aspires 
To  kindle  in  my  heart  the  fires 
Of  best  desires. 

I  hold  the  man  of  all  most  dear 
Who,  when  I  stumble,  draweth  near 
With  word  of  cheer. 

I  hold  that  man  of  best  intents 
Who  giveth  me  not  paltry  pence, 
But  confidence. 

For  there  are  men  who  quick  caress 
Will  give  to  laurel-crowned  success — 
To  nothing  less. 

But,  oh,  how  dearer  far  are  they 
Who  help  me  on  the  upward  way 
When  skies  are  gray. 

If  so  it  be  that  I  attain 

The  mountain  peak,  and  leave  the  plain 

And  paths  of  pain, 

My  prayers  shall  first  be  upward  sent 
For  those  dear  friends  of  mine  who  lent 
Encouragement. 


188  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE  BLIND. 

This  world,  to  other  mortals  green  and  gay, 
To  him  is  dim  and  misty  and  unknown. 

He  must  explore  and  re-explore  the  way, 

Must  feel  anew  each  hurt  and  bruise  of  stone. 

Each  path  is  strange,  though  often  traveled  o'er, 
Each  hour  of  all  the  day  an  hour  of  night. 

At  eve  he  comes  half-doubting  to  his  door 
Nor  sees  afar  his  window's  waiting  light. 

And  yet  I  sometimes  think  perhaps  he  sees 
The  farther  as  his  earthly  visions  fade, 

That  he  has  solved  some  of  those  mysteries 
Through  which  the  seeing  blunder  on  afraid. 

For  from  his  lips  I  hear  no  loud  complaint 
And  from  his  heart  I  hear  no  cry  of  woe ; 

He  bows  his  head  as  bowed  the  dying  saint, 
Nor  questions  God,  since  God  has  willed  it  so. 

I  would  that  I  might  learn  his  sweet  content 
That  I  might  better  bear  life's  petty  ills 

And,  when  my  feet  to  gloomy  vales  were  sent, 
Might  hear  my  heart  still  singing  in  the  hills. 

O  Dan,  if  you  have  found  the  path  of  peace, 
You  tread  the  way  that  many  seek  in  vain ; 

For  you  have  found  the  place  where  sorrows  cease, 
For  you  have  found  the  balm  for  every  pain. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  189 

O  Dan,  if  you  have  learned  to  bend  the  knee, 
To  bow  the  head,  content,  and  kiss  the  rod, 

You  look  beyond  where  other  men  may  see, 
You  look  above  them  on  the  face  of  God. 


190  IN  FOREST  LAND 


IT'S  A  MIGHTY  GOOD  WORLD  TO  ME, 

I've  heard  folks  sigh,  I've  heard  folks  cry 

That  life's  not  worth  the  while, 
That  men  deceive  and  women  grieve, 

And  none  has  cause  to  smile. 
The  road  is  long,  and  things  go  wrong, 

And  folks  all  disagree; 
In  vain  our  dreams — and  yet  it  seems 

A  mighty  good  world  to  me. 

Yes,  folks  complain  that  life  is  pain, 

That  naught  is  good  or  pure, 
The  bad  succeed,  the  wealthy  bleed 

The  pockets  of  the  poor. 
We  weep,  we  sleep,  and  thus  we  keep 

The  treadmill  endlessly, 
A  way  of  tears— yet  it  appears 

A  mighty  good  world  to  me. 

Oh,  there  are  those  who  tell  their  woes 

To  ev'ry  willing  ear ; 
To  such  as  they  all  skies  are  gray 

And  ev'ry  path  is  drear. 
I  sometimes  think  perhaps  they  drink 

The  bitter  needlessly; 
Despite  their  groans,  despite  their  moans, 

It's  a  mighty  good  world  to  me. 

If  life  is  fair  or  life  is  bare 

Upon  ourselves  depends; 
He  who  complains  has  but  his  pains — 

The  merry  man  has  friends. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  191 

Oh,  look  above  with  eyes  of  love 

And  see  the  skies  of  blue 
Where  sunrays  gleam,  and  it  will  seem 

A  mighty  good  world  to  you. 


192  IN  FOREST  LAND 


THE   DISAGREEABLENESS   OF 
INFALLIBILITY. 

He  owned  a  mill,  he  owned  a  mine, 
He  owned  a  hundred  miles  of  pine, 
He  owned  a  horseless  carriage  fine, 

He  owned  as  well  a  coach  and  four ; 
He  owned  a  house,  he  owned  a  lot, 
He  owned  a  yawl,  he  owned  a  yacht ; 
Could  Lake  Superior  be  bought, 

He'd  owned  that,  too,  from  shore  to  shore. 

He  owned  a  mansion  great  and  brown, 
He  owned  at  night  a  couch  of  down ; 
He  owned  a  street,  he  owned  a  town, 

In  politics  he  owned  a  state. 
He  owned  a  sumptuous  palace  car; 
He  owned  a  railroad  stretching  far, 
He  owned  a  ship  from  keel  to  spar, 

He  owned  them  both  and  owned  the  freight 

And  yet  he  lived  a  life  alone 
Because  one  thing  he  did  not  own ; 
And  all  his  cash  was  seed  was  sown 

Upon  a  field  of  arid  salt. 
He  had  no  popularity 
Because  he  had  not  learned  to  see 
That  what  he  lacked  was  this,  that  he 

Had  never  owned  a  fault. 

L'ENVOI. 

This  life  would  be  one  grand,  sweet  song 
If  other  folks  would  say  they're  wrong. 


U  C  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

mi  nun  HI 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


APR    7 


REC.  CIR.   JWt  201ft 


JUN 


*&m- 


.IBRARY 


